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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



| .gyUjfTguse. I 



233 



i UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. J 

■m 



SKETCHES, 



PROSE AND VERSE. 



SKETCHES 



PROSE AND VERSE. 



(SECOND SERIES.) 



CONTAINING 



VISITS TO THE MANTELLIAX MUSEUM, 



DESCRIPTIVE OF THAT COLLECTION : 



ESSAYS, TALES, POEMS, &c. &c. 



/ BV 

Ct. F. RICHARDSON, 

OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM, 
LATE CURATOR OF THE MANTELLIAN INSTITUTION. 



LONDON : 
RELFE AND FLETCHER, CORNHILL. 

1838. 




7? 5* % & 



LONDON : 
li. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD-STREET-KILL. 



TO 



G. A. MANTELL, Esq., LL.D. F.R.S. 

&C. &C. &Co 



My Dear Sir. 

Allow me to dedicate to you the 

present volume, the only interesting portion 

of which, at least in the estimation of the 

writer, consists in the few and desultory 

pages which are devoted to the description 

of your labours and discoveries ; and the 

imperfect but respectful homage to your 

talents and genius. 

a3 



VI DEDICATION. 

With every sincere and respectful wish 
for your health, prosperity, and happiness, 
allow me, my dear Sir, to subscribe myself, 

Your obliged and devoted servant, 

THE AUTHOR. 



British Museum, 
July 1, 1838. 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 



The Marquis of Northampton, 2 copies. 

The Marquis of Bristol. 

The Earl of Chichester, 2 copies. 

Viscount Cole, M.P. 

The Earl of Munster. 

Lord Alfred Hervey. 

Lady Mantell. 

Sir Adolphus Dalrymple, Bart. 

Sir P. M. de Grey Egerton, Bart, M.P. 

Sir M. J. Tierney, Bart. 

Rear Admiral Sjr J. T. Rodd. 

Sir Richard Hunter, 2 co-pies. 

Sir Frederick Madden. 



Vlll 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 



Alger, Mr. 
Allnutt, Mrs. 
Anderson, Rev. J. S, M. 
Attree, W. Esq. 
Attree, T. Esq. 

Babbage, Professor 
Barratt, Colonel 
Basevi, G. Esq. 
Baumgarten, Rev. C. 
Beattie, Dr. 
Binan, M. 
Birch, T. Esq. 
Blaber, Mr. 
Blaber, Miss 
Black, P. Esq. 
Blair, Dr. 
Bodley, T. Esq. 
Boys, J. Esq, 
Brett, C. Esq. 
Broadwood, T. Esq. 
Brydges, T. Esq. 
Buckland, Rev. Dr. 

Clarke, I. Esq. 2 copies. 



Codrington, Miss 
Colbatch, J. Esq. 
Collins, H. Esq. 
Cooke, Rev. T. 
Cooper, Rev. W. H. 
Cotton, Mrs. 

Deverell, Mrs. 2 copies. 

Everitt, H. Y. Esq. 

Faraday, Dr. 
Farncomb, Miss 
Ferguson, Mr. 
Fleet, Mr. 
Freeman, T. Esq. 
Friend, a 
Friend, a 
Furner f W. Esq, 

Gaudrion, Mme. de 

Gear, R. Esq. 

Gilbert, Davies, Esq. V. P. 

R. S. 2 copies. 
Greene, A. S. Esq, 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 



IX 



Hall, Dr. Outram, Dr. 
Hallam, Henry, Esq. 2 copies 

Hawkins, Mr. Partington, T. Esq. 

Heaviside, R. Esq. Pechell, Capt. R.N. 2 copies. 

Holmes, Mr, G. B. Peel, Laurence, Esq. 

Holtham, Mr. Pickford, J. Esq. 

Pitcher, A. Esq. 

Jefferson, Dr. Pocock, Erasmus, Esq. 



Konig, C. Esq. British 
Museum 

Lewis, B. Esq. 

Lyell, C. Esq. 

Lyon, D. Esq. 2 copies. 



Randall, Captain 
Randall, Mrs. 
Randall, Miss 
Ricardo, M. Esq. 
Robertson, F. Esq. 
Rowland, A. Esq. 3 copies. 



Malleson, Rev. P. 
Mantell, Dr. 
Masquerier, J. J. Esq. 
Mills, J. Esq. 
Morris, A. Esq. 
Murchison, R. I. Esq. 

Newnham, R. Esq. 



Seymour, F. Esq. 
Slight, Mr. 
Smart, B. H. Esq. 
Smith, B. Esq. 
Smith, Horace, Esq. 
Stone, Mr. 
Stone, Miss 



LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 



Thomas, Inigo, Esq. 
Thomas, Hon. Mrs. 
Tonson, Mrs. 
Trotter, R. Esq. 

Upperton, R. Esq. 



Vallance, E. Esq. 

Wagner, Rev. H. M. 
Watson, J. Esq. 
Wigney, I. N. Esq. 
Williams, W. Esq. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Visits to the Mantellian Museum. No. I . . 1 

Henri Laroche Jaquelein to his Soldiers 28 

Flavianus and Lucilla 31 

Lines recited at the First Anniversary of the Sussex Royal 

Institution and Mantellian Museum 51 

The Culprit . . 54 

The Judgment of Wines (from the German of Langbein) . . 87 
A Sketch of the German Language and Literature .... 90 

To a Young Lady, on her Marriage . 124 

The Electress Palatine to her Brother, Charles 1 129 

II Ritratto del Pittore 129 

Toy of the Giant's Child 15 

Sketch of the Hebrew Language and Literature 162 

The Oath of Hannibal 187 

Visits to the Mantellian Museum. No. II 189 

Brambletye House 223 



XU CONTENTS. 

TAGE 

The Bronze Cupid, a Tale of the Mantellian Museum . . . 224 

Conclusion of Schultze's Poem of Cecilia, from the German 241 

Aline 244 

With a Nosegay 266 

Dreams 267 

The Ring e 272 

A Ryghte Trewe Storie of a Waulke and Taulke abowte 

Geologye ande Hystorye 289 

Stanzas for Music 296 

An Anecdote of Gustavus Adolphus 297 

Remembrance 306 

Stanzas on the Arrival of the Queen at Brighton .... 307 

The Separation 309 

Stanzas 320 

The Coronation 322 



SKETCHES. 



VISITS TO THE MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 

No. I. 

Geology is a science which is still in so youthful, 
it might be said, so infant a state, that however 
ardently and successfully it has been cultivated of 
late years, its importance and value are even now- 
known and appreciated only by a few, by a small 
section of philosophers and savans, rather than by 
the generality of mankind ; and thus a study which 
is connected with the most indispensable wants and 
necessities of the human race, which is essential to 
the landholder, the farmer, the architect, and the 
engineer, — nay, which is associated with higher and 
more intellectual pursuits, and is valuable to the 
painter, the poet, the moralist, and the divine, has 

B 



4- VISITS TO THE 

beyond the means of the association to effect ; and 
at the moment when these remarks are penned, 
negotiations are in progress for its being trans- 
ferred to the British Museum. Yet since, in the 
event of such a removal, it will in some degree be 
dispersed among the treasures of so vast a collection, 
the writer has presumed that some account of the 
Mantellian Museum, in its present separate state, 
may not prove wholly uninteresting to the reader. 

For a complete and detailed history of the col- 
lection, the inquirer is referred to the various 
works of Dr. Mantell, particularly his recent pub- 
lication, — " The Wonders of Geology." — The fol- 
lowing desultory observations are merely offered, 
in the hope of their affording a general idea of 
its contents, the sources whence it has been 
derived, and the chief features which it offers for 
observation. 

The South-East of England presents strata of 
three different kinds,— the Chalk, the Wealden, 
and the Tertiary. The chalk rises at Beachy- 
head into hills, which traverse the county of Sussex 
from east to west, extend into Hampshire, and are 
termed the South Downs ; another range passes 
by Godalming, Godstone, &e. into Kent, and is 
called the North Downs ; while the area between 
the two is traversed by a line of hills, composed 
of sandstones, clays, &c, having on each side a 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 5 

valley of clay, constituting the Wealds of Kent 
and Sussex, and the whole group is hence deno- 
minated the Wealden formation. Prior to the 
researches and discoveries of Dr. Mantell — in fact, 
a very few years ago, the character of the "Wealden 
formation was wholly mistaken, and its real nature 
altogether unknown, — the sandstones, shales, and 
indurated clays, which compose its strata, having 
been supposed to belong to the chalk, and to be of 
marine origin. Dr. Mantell, however, by a series of 
extensive and laborious investigations, has ascer- 
tained the true geological character of the district, 
and its embedded organic remains; and has shown, 
that while the fossils of the chalk are entirely ma- 
rine, consisting of shells, corals, sponges, and fish : 
the weald presents exclusively the remains of land 
and fresh-water animals, and plants ; has evidently 
been deposited at the mouth of a river, and has 
constituted, at some remote period, an extensive 
delta. Dr. Mantell has farther discovered, that 
the whole of the wealden strata were once, in all 
probability, covered by the chalk ; and that they 
have subsequently been elevated, and forced 
through the superincumbent chalk, occasioning its 
denudation and destruction. The last division of 
the local series, the tertiary beds, occur at Castle- 
hill, near Newhaven ; in the cliffs from Shoreham 
to Rottingdean ; at Bognor ; and in the vicinity 
of Chichester. The circumstances attending the 



b VISITS TO THE 

deposite of the remains" of the enormous lizards, 
which are found in the wealden, are conceived to be 
simply these, — that these gigantic creatures lived 
and died in the ancient waters ; that after death 
their remains were floated down the stream ; that 
decomposition ensuing, first the flesh decayed and 
perished; next the integuments were macerated 
and dissolved; and lastly, that the osseous relics 
thus released from all connexion or attachment 
with each other, either sank to the bed of the 
stream, or were thrown by the waves on the shores 
and banks, and there sinking in the mud or sand, 
were converted, with these substances, into stone. 

The following lines may, perhaps, be offered as 
a general sketch of the interesting and valuable 
contents of this unique collection : — 

'Tis indeed a world of wonder, 
Found within the earth and under ; 
Fancied forms and wild chimeras, 
Creatures of primeval aeras, 
Startling all our ancient notions, 
Showing lands of old were oceans ; 
Showing oceans once were dry, 
As the mountains old and high ! 
Wondrous shapes, and tales terrific, 
Told in Nature's hieroglyphic ; 
Written in her countless volumes, 
Graven on her granite columns ! 
Showing many a strangest mystery, 
From her ancient, wondrous history. 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 

Forms as wild as fancy wishes, 
Monster lizards, stony fishes ; 
Fragments of the lost amphibia, 
Here a femur, — there a tibia ; — 
Here the monster mammoth sleeping, 
There the giant lizard creeping, — 
Beings of a tropic nature, 
Crocodile and alligator ; 
Fragments vast of lost creations, 
Relics of earth's first formations ; 
Here the snake, the lizard there, 
With the tiger and the bear ! 
Monsters from beneath the waves, 
With the creatures hid in caves, 
Brought in later days to light, 
From their dens of stalagmite ! 

Yet these giant forms tremendous, 

Creatures wondrous, wild, stupendous, — 

Huge, — that fancy cannot frame them ; 

Wild, — that language may not name them, 

Differing from a world like this, 

Each and all were framed for bliss ; 

Form'd to share, without alloy, 

Each its element of joy, 

By that Power that rules to bless, 

All were made for happiness ! 

The first object which attracts the attention of 
the visitor in ascending the staircase, is the model 
of a portion of the pelvis of the Megatherium, or 
colossal Sloth, whose enormous size and singular 
structure, Dr. Buckland, among other writers, has 



8 VISITS TO THE 

so vividly described. The model in question was 
presented to Dr, Mantell by the College of Sur- 
geons, and is taken from the real specimen in the 
possession of that Society, which was discovered 
by Sir Woodbine Parish, in the bed of the river 
Salado, near Buenos Ayres, in South America, in 
1832. The corresponding structure of the horse 
is placed in immediate juxta-position, exhibiting, 
by its pigmy-like proportions, the enormous bulk of 
this giant of the sloth family, which, with its 
colossal size; its columnar limbs, and its huge 
body, cased, it is conceived, in scaly armour, must 
, have presented a living fortress, impregnable to all 
the attacks of the creatures by which it was sur- 
rounded. The diplomas, certificates, and other 
documents of learned bodies, both at home and 
abroad, placed around, evince both the estimation 
in which Geology is held by the learned world, 
and the sense entertained of the value of Dr. 
Mantell's labours and contributions to this impor- 
tant science. 

The next object to which the attention of the 
visitor is directed, is a diagram, representing a 
restoration of the Weald of Sussex, and affording 
the chief features of a scene, which a Martin has 
endowed with all the sublime and terrific powers 
of his pencil.* The centre of the drawing pre- 

* See Frontispiece to Dr. Mantell's recent publication, " The 
Wonders of Geology." 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 9 

sents a vast river, some mighty Nile, or still 
mightier Mississippi, which is conceived to have 
once flowed through the district, and whose 
streams and shores were peopled with the strange 
and singular forms both of animal and vegetable 
existence here depicted in their appropriate situ- 
ations, at a period when this country formed 
part of a vast continent, or an equally extensive 
island. The waters exhibit the Plesiosaurus, that 
wondrous combination of bird and lizard, and 
quadruped and fish ; which, with arched and swan- 
like neck, sails majestically on the tranquil bosom 
of the stream ; — the Lepidotus, a very Triton of the 
river, an enormous fresh-water fish, pronounced by 
Agassiz to have been fifteen feet in length, is 
shadowed in the distance. On land are seen the 
gigantic Megalosaurus, the Hylaeosaurus, with its 
enormous spinal apparatus, bristling in fearful 
array along its back ; while the colossal Iguanodon, 
with its similar appendage of spines, and its single 
unique horn, appears to reign undisputed monarch 
of the wild and wondrous scene ! A host of acces- 
sories are strewed in the fore-ground, — the turtle, 
the tortoise, and " such small deer," crouch at the 
feet of the lizard-monarch of the realm, and dis- 
play, by their disparity of size, the terrific propor- 
tions of the stupendous shapes with which they 
are contrasted. The vegetable forms exhibit a 

b 3 



10 VISITS TO THE 

like dissimilarity to those now in existence ; in 
vain do we seek for the trees which now luxuriate 
in the weald, and abound in a temperate zone, 
the oak, the ash, or the elm ; we find only those 
at present limited to the tropics, and allied to the 
fern, the cane, the palm, and the bamboo ! 

On entering the apartment, the objects are seen 
arranged in cases in their due order and succession, 
while various additions, and recent specimens, 
are placed for illustration round the room. Here 
a stuffed specimen of the Iguana climbs the wall — 
there we behold a crocodile — and yonder " an 
alligator stuffed;" while over the fire-place the 
magnificent skull and antlers of the gigantic Elk 
of Ireland give an air of imposing dignity to the 
whole. 

The first specimens which excite the attention 
even of the most careless observer, are the enormous 
fragments of the vast lizards, who, in the language 
of a celebrated German palaeontologist, and writer 
on fossil remains,* once ruled the earth, and formed 
an age of reptiles. 

An enormous femur of the Iguanodon, an ex 
pede Herculem illustration of the gigantic size of 
its owner, first meets the eye, indicating, by its 
colossal dimensions and structure, the vast propor- 
tions of the creature of which it formed a part ; in 

* Von Meyer. 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 11 

other divisions of the same case the attention is 
variously drawn to a rib, vertebrae, heads of tibiae, 
or knee bones, and other fragments of like colossal 
dimensions; and by the simple process of joining, 
in idea, these separate structures, placing the ver- 
tebrae on the table in the centre of the room, ap- 
pending the ribs on each side, supporting the 
enormous trunk on such massive thigh-bones and 
legs as are described above, and then clothing the 
skeleton with all its investiture of integument, 
muscle, flesh, skin, and scales, we create a monster 
which the apartment could not contain as to size, 
and which was elongated to an extent of eighty or 
a hundred feet — a whale on land — surpassing all 
existing realities, and embodying the wildest visions 
of Eastern fable or romance. The structure, habits, 
and general character of this monarch of the lizard 
race, have been so amply described in the works of 
Dr. Mantell, that it may here suffice to offer a 
general description, referring to his writings for 
more ample details of these former lords of the 
creation. 

The Iguanodon has been so named from the 
Iguana, a lizard of the tropics, the termination 
odon, from the Greek odous, a tooth, being added 
to show that its teeth resembled those of the 
Iguana; the teeth, as the reader is doubtless aware, 
being one of those generic points by which animals 



12 



VISITS TO THE 



are usually classed by naturalists ; and, together 
with the claw, horn, and other characters, being 
analogous, with the exception of size, in the recent 
and fossil animal. The term Iguana, the writer has 
understood, is derived from the Tamul language of 
Hindoostan, and together with other words of like 
derivation, of which the anana (pine apple) is one, 
has passed from the East to the West Indies ; in 
both of which regions, as well as in North and 
South America, the animal is found to exist. It 
is a harmless herbivorous creature, and its flesh 
being considered a delicacy, especially in the French 
West India Islands, it is constantly pursued and 
killed for food. Its colossal prototype is conceived 
to have borne the same character, to have been alike 
herbivorous, and to have found its food and its 
home amid the tropical vegetation by which it was 
surrounded when living, and which are entombed, 
in a fossil state, in the same quarries with its bones. 
The resemblance in many important points between 
the recent and fossil reptiles, is not only of high 
interest to the scientific student, but is striking 
and impressive even to the common observer. 
For instance, the teeth in the lizard race are 
singularly small compared with the bulk of the 
animal, these creatures having no power of masti- 
cating their food, but biting it off and gorging it 
entire, like the boa constrictor, and the serpent 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 13 

tribe in general. Hence the teeth of an Iguana five 
feet in length, are no larger than those of a mouse, 
and exhibit in their smallness of size ; their pris- 
matic form ; the angular shape of the crown ; and 
the notched and serrated edge ; an almost perfect 
similarity to those of their extinct prototype, 
which are alike of most insignificant proportions 
compared w T ith the size of the animal, w T hich 
it is conceived extended from seventy to a hun- 
dred feet in length, accordingly as it approximated 
to the crocodilian or lacertian type. The claw 
presents a like resemblance ; but, perhaps, the 
most striking similarity is that presented by the 
horn, an invaluable and unique specimen of which 
forms one of the most interesting objects in this 
department of the Museum. Like the teeth, it is 
singularly small — a mere protuberance in fact; 
and has its analogy in one species only of the 
Iguana, found in St. Domingo, which has a small 
osseous conical horn, or process, covered by a single 
scale, and is called the Iguana cornuta. 

The same cabinet contains many hundred speci- 
mens of the bonesof reptiles, turtles, fishes, and birds: 
these last were for along time objects of doubt, as 
to whether they really were the osseous relics of the 
feathered tribes, when the fortunate discovery of 
the inferior portion of a leg-bone, in which the 
mark of the articulation of the hind-toe is distinctly 



14 VISITS TO THE 

visible, set the question at rest, and proved them 
to be bones of wading birds, similar to the heron. 
This department is farther enriched with a series 
of fossils and minerals, illustrative of the geological 
structure of the coast of Sussex ; commencing with 
the Bognor rocks in the west of the county; 
followed in regular succession by specimens of the 
conglomerate of Brighton cliffs ; subsulphate of 
alumine and tertiary deposites from Castle Hill, 
near Newhaven ; the chalk with flints at Beachy 
Head ; the chalk, marl, and gait, of the South 
Downs ; the Shanklin sand of the Isle of Wight ; 
and, lastly, the limestones, clays, sandstones, and 
marble, of the Weald. The vegetable remains of 
the wealden district are placed in an upper apart- 
ment. A frame adjoining contains a fine example 
of the ammonite from the lias ; a splendid series of 
caudal vertebrae, it is supposed, of the Hylaeosaurus, 
announcing by their gigantic processes the enor- 
mous size of the animal to which they belonged ; 
and beneath, a slab of sandstone from the weald, 
exhibiting the ripple marks caused by the tide. 

A large case near the centre of the room, con- 
tains the rare and unique specimen termed the 
Maidstone Iguanodon, from its having been disco- 
vered in a quarry near that town, about four years 
since. Some workmen in the employ of Mr. W. H. 
Bensted, were blasting a portion of rock, when, 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 15 

on the explosion taking place, the scattered frag- 
ments of stone were found to exhibit traces of 
bone, which proved on examination to be those of 
the Iguanodon. The specimen was immediately 
purchased in its original rough state, by some pri- 
vate friends of Dr. Mantell, and presented to him ; 
and having been chiselled and sculptured from the 
rock in which it was embedded, now forms the 
most interesting specimen of the kind yet disco- 
vered ; its value and importance consisting in the 
circumstance of its exhibiting the nearest ap- 
proach to the perfect skeleton yet brought to light, 
and sufficiently indicating that the entire of the 
osseous remains of the animal were once deposited 
in this spot. A fact of considerable importance 
connected with this discovery, consists in its being 
found to confirm many of Dr. Mantell's previous 
assumptions respecting the structure of this fresh- 
water leviathan : for instance, among other specula- 
tions of like nature, he had assumed that the fossil 
animal must have differed from the recent Iguana, 
whose feet are slight and slender, in having hind 
feet of a massive form to support its enormous 
w r eight ; and accordingly the hinder feet are found 
to present a striking similarity to those of the 
rhinoceros. The deposite in w 7 hich this specimen 
was embedded, which is the Kentish rag, a por- 
tion of the green sand, and therefore a marine 



16 VISITS TO THE 

formation, differs from the strata of the Weald, 
which are entirely of fluviatile origin ; and the 
difference is explained by conceiving that the re- 
mains in question, as is frequently the case at the 
present day, were floated out to sea, and there 
embedded in a marine deposite. The individual 
in question, though but a pigmy in comparison 
with the more gigantic creatures whose remains 
are placed in the opposite cases, is conceived to 
have exceeded sixty feet in length ; and the 
principal fragments preserved are the two thigh- 
bones, a leg-bone, with bones of the feet, claws, 
spine, breast, tail, and ribs ; while a row of verte- 
brae suddenly broken off, with other circumstances 
of similar nature, indicate the fact previously 
alluded to, that the whole of the structure was 
once embedded in this spot, and that a con- 
siderable portion has been quarried off, and lost 
to science. Dr. Buckland, in adverting to this 
circumstance at the Bristol meeting of the British 
Association of Science, observed, that lizards un- 
questionably once existed of so colossal a size, that, 
compared with them, the elephant w r as but a shrimp ; 
"and as," added the Professor, " the stone in 
which they are embedded is used to mend the roads 
in Sussex, you will, in your journey to Brighton, 
probably crush beneath your carriage-wheels the 
remains of creatures which, had you lived a hundred 



MANTELL1AN MUSEUM. 17 

thousand years ago, might have turned the tables, 
and crushed you. But/' he continued, " a distin- 
guished savant and friend of mine has formed a whole 
menagerie of these creatures at Brighton, which I 
recommend all who visit that place to go and see." 

Pass we now to another discovery of the same 
nature. The case beneath the window contains a 
considerable portion of the Hylasosaurus, or lizard 
of the weald or wood, the osteology of which 
presents many peculiar features, as well as singular 
departures from the structure of recent lizards. 
This is particularly the case in the sternal appa- 
ratus, or bones of the breast ; for while the omo- 
plates resemble those of the crocodile, the coracoid 
bones are formed like those of the lizard. But 
this circumstance is surpassed in singularity and 
importance by certain large, triangular bones, which 
Dr. Mantell, in a paper read before the Geological 
Society in 1832, has pronounced to be dermal 
processes, or bony spines, which extended along 
the back, above the skin, and represented, in the 
extinct animal, the grisly spines of the Iguana, and 
other existing reptiles. This specimen, which is 
perfectly unique, and has not its parallel in the 
world, closes the assemblage of animal relics ex- 
humed by Dr. Mantell, from the weald. 

A separate case is devoted to the organic remains 
discovered by Dr. Mantell in the cliffs of Brighton, 



18 VISITS TO THE 

which occur in a coarse conglomerate composed of 
fragmentary chalk and flints, impacted in a calca- 
reous cement ; the whole being a collection of water- 
worn materials deposited upon the chalk ; the animal 
relics, consisting of the teeth and bones of the 
elephant, buffalo, horse, and deer. The visitors 
who promenade or drive on the Marine Parade, are 
probably not aware that beneath them lie the 
remains of a former condition of this region; for 
these deposites, though, geologically speaking, they 
are but of recent date, yet extend beyond all history 
and all tradition, and point to a period when crea- 
tures, now limited to the torrid zone, and which 
could not be acclimated in the present state of the 
temperature, were natives and inhabitants here. 
An adjacent case presents a like assemblage of 
remains of the large Mammalia, collected from the 
most distant regions. On the upper shelf are seen 
models of the bones of the Megalonyx, (great- 
clawed animal,) an enormous creature of the sloth 
family, which, on its first discovery in North 
America, was conceived by President Jefferson to 
be a Hon, but which the more minute and accurate 
observations of Cuvier determined to be a gigantic 
sloth, analogous to the Megatherium. In the lower 
departments are variously deposited bones and 
tusks and teeth of elephants, and other large mam- 
malia, from Walton, in Essex; of elephants and 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 19 

mastodons, from the banks of the Ohio and the 
Hudson, with a like collection from the Burmese 
empire ; and in particular a splendid suite of fossils 
from the Sub-Himalayeh mountains of Hindoostan, 
presented by Captain Cautley; comprising the 
osseous fragments of the elephant, mastodon, rhi- 
noceros, hippopotamus, gavial, &c, the interest of 
which is increased by the site in which they are 
found ; the animals, as the crocodile and turtle, 
being many of them fluviatile, such as inhabit rivers, 
while these remains are discovered on hills and 
elevations over which no river can possibly flow ; 
affording a decisive proof of elevation, and showing 
that these hills have been raised to their present 
mountain heights subsequently to the existence of 
these animals, and the deposite of their remains. 
The lower divisions of the same cabinet are occu- 
pied by relics exhumed from the local alluvium, 
among which is a skull from the levels of the 
Adur, near Shoreham, conceived to be that of one 
of our Celtic ancestors, the teeth of which present 
so flat and smooth an appearance, that it is in- 
ferred, our barbarian ancestors rarely indulged 
in an animal repast, but chiefly subsisted on pulse 
and grain. 

The recesses on each side this case contain, the 
one a model, the other a real specimen of the 
Plesiosaurus, so vividly described by Dr. Buckland, 



20 VISITS TO THE 

as combining the attributes of half a dozen animals 
in one, uniting the head of a lizard, the neck of a 
swan, the paddles of a whale, the ribs of a chame- 
leon, and the tail of a quadruped ; while, by one of 
those admirable adaptations of means to an end, 
observable throughout universal nature, the bones 
of the creature were solid, like those of fish, instead, 
like those of the terrestrial animals, and of man, of 
being hollow and filled with marrow, with the 
obvious design of fitting the creature to move with 
the more facility in water, the element in which it 
was destined by Omnipotence to live, and move, 
and have its being. 

In an adjacent recess are placed samples of the 
fossil forest of the Isle of Portland, comprising 
specimens of plants allied to the cycadeae, termed 
Mantellia by M. Adolphe Brongniart, and consi- 
dered as forming a link beneath the coniferous 
trees, and the ferns and palms, exhibiting the 
woody structure of the plant, yet so perfectly silici- 
fied as to strike fire with steel. A case adjoining 
is devoted to a varied and miscellaneous collection 
of specimens, comprising fish, from the tertiary 
formations of Italy ; models of trilobites, in the 
collection of Dr. Harlan, of Philadelphia ; a portion 
of the volcanic isle of the Mediterranean, w 7 hich 
rose and disappeared a few years ago ; with a splen- 
did collection of shells from the Newer Pliocene 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 21 

strata of Palermo ; and an invaluable assemblage 
of organic remains, chiefly of bears 5 tigers, and 
hyenas, from the fossiliferous caverns of Germany. 
An adjoining receptacle contains, among other 
relics of like nature, the gigantic vertebra of a 
colossal lizard, discovered in the United States by 
Dr. Harlan, which he has named the Basilosaurus, 
and which, surpassing in size even the wealden 
monsters of our native land, well deserves its ap- 
pellation of the Lizard King, 

A long table in the centre of the apartment is 
occupied with the fossils of the chalk, which, it is 
well known, are wholly marine, comprising the 
choicest and most valued specimens of that forma- 
tion, and affording the most interesting proofs of 
the changes of which it has been the scene. The 
specimens comprise a beautiful series of zoophytes 
of extinct forms; numberless genera and species 
of which have been determined by Dr. Mantell ; 
the chief of these are termed the Choanite, Marsu- 
pite, and Ventrieulite, names derived from the 
form and structure of the animals, one of which 
was shaped like a funnel, another like a bag, 
another like a stomach, while the separate divi- 
sions present sponges, marine plants, and weeds, 
with an unique collection of crustacean remains, 
fragments of the crab and the lobster ; and a 
similarly valuable collection of eehinites, teeth of 



22 VISITS TO THE 

sharks, and tropical shells. A case placed near 
contains examples of the minerals of the chalk, 
crystallized quartz, chalcedony, carbonate of lime, 
&c, and closes the interesting series of valuable 
objects comprised in the lower apartment of the 
collection. 

Such are the most important and striking of the 
monuments of nature, and of the physical history of 
this district, comprised in this section of the Museum. 
The remaining portion will claim a separate paper 
for its description. But ere we quit the scene of 
wonder, let us look once more around — once more 
contemplate the attractive objects which it presents. 
To describe the whole of its memorials, and the 
deductions which may be formed from its study, 
would require a treatise instead of the slight 
sketch which is here proposed : to select some of 
its most interesting objects, and to impress a few of 
its most instructive lessons, must suffice for the 
present purpose. One of the earliest results of 
geological investigations is the extreme antiquity 
of the earth, the age of which is indisputably to be 
computed by cycles of cycles of ages ! The modern 
date of the creation of the human species, whose 
remains are found only in the alluvial soil, while the 
solid rocks beneath contain only the remains of the 
animal tribes, but present no traces of man, or his 
works, is a fact which as speedily becomes apparent. 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. %6 

The existence of the animal creation prior to that of 
mankind, and the peopling the earth by their diversi- 
fied races during immeasurable agras before man ex- 
isted on its surface, is a necessary deduction from the 
facts above stated. The antiquity of the earth, the 
priority of the animal creation, the modern date of 
man, are assertions, now unhesitatingly and fear- 
lessly declared by geologists, and repeated by 
teachers and divines. A few years, however, only 
have elapsed since the promulgator of such opinions 
would have aroused the fears of the timid, and pro- 
voked the hostility of the ignorant and half-in- 
formed. Yet the truth had been shadowed forth 
long before ; philosophers had entertained similar 
opinions from the earliest times, and with almost pro- 
phetic spirit the divine Milton had cautioned us— 

" Nor think though man were not, 
" That Heaven would want adorers, God want praise." 

This Warning [ was uttered nearly two centuries 
before the researches of science had shown that this 
beautiful and wondrous world existed and was 
filled with living creatures, innumerable ages ere 
man was its inhabitant. The tropical climate of the 
ancient earth, and the gradual refrigeration which it 
has undergone, are circumstances which in this 
locality, as elsewhere, are proved both by its animal 
and vegetable remains, by the lizard forms, and 



24 VISITS TO THE 

ferns, and palms of the Weald; by the shells and 
Crustacea of the chalk, which are referrible to Indian 
genera; and by the elephantine types of animals 
which are discovered in the later tertiary strata. . 
The immutability of the laws of nature is shown, 
among other proofs, by the analogy of modern with 
ancient causes and results, in modifying the surface 
of the earth itself; and in organized beings by the 
similarity of the types of many fossil with those of 
recent animals, and by their corresponding habits 
and instincts ; by the herbivora roaming over the 
plains, and the carnivora lurking in caves and dens 
of the earth. Nor amid the attractions associated 
with this collection can we omit the charm which 
is attached to a young and advancing science, whose 
researches are as engaging as they are important, 
and whose discoveries yet have all the freshness and 
fascination of novelty. When another continent 
was discovered, the old world was anxious to pre- 
cipitate itself upon the new ; and in like manner, 
when a fresh world is opened at our feet, we all 
are anxious to penetrate and explore it. 

To descend from general principles to single 
specimens, and from excursive observations to par- 
ticular facts, how eloquent are these silent records of 
the history of the earth ; how impressive these mute 
but persuasive teachers of the past ! Yon frag- 
ments of the giant lizards, how forcibly do they 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 25 

recall the story of their life and being : how accu- 
rately realize the existence of monsters wilder and 
more wondrous than even Oriental fancy has por- 
trayed ! Those ripple-marks on the sand, how 
exactly do they present the traces of the last tide 
which flowed over them — the furrows of its waves 
— the markings of its snails and worms ! Those 
blocks of Sussex marble, how interesting their 
history; composed merely of the snails generated 
in the slime and mud of the river, and converted 
with it into limestone, they have been employed 
by man as long since as the Roman invasion, and 
during two thousand years have ministered to his 
use, have ornamented his halls and temples while 
living, and furnished him with a tomb when dead ! 
Yon fossil forest changed to stone, how powerfully 
does it revive the wonders of our childhood — of 
trees and woods transfixed to marble, and teach 
that tales of Eastern necromancy are exceeded by 
the magic of nature ! Specimens derived from 
her inorganic kingdoms evince how wondrous are 
the mutations which even these have undergone ; 
the flint marked with the sharpest impression of 
the shell, the most delicate foliage of the weed, 
proves that these impressions were stamped while 
the stony substance was in a soft and soluble state, 
and that rocks and stones were not always the solid, 
unyielding substances which we now behold them ; 

c 



26 VISITS TO THE 

but that all stone, all rock, whatever now is hard, 
once was in the state of sand, of mud, or of fluid. 
Nor can we be insensible to the singular beauty 
and elegance of many of the specimens before us.. 
Yon Sicilian shells, how lovely is their shape ; how 
tasteful their position ! They are placed with as 
much skill as if arranged by the finger of taste, to 
embellish the cabinet of a lady ; but they have been 
grouped only by the hand of Nature in the profound 
recesses of her ocean depths: — how bright and beauti- 
ful those teeth of fish ; how brilliant their enamel 
coloured with a metallic tint of softest and most 
delicate lilac ! How elegant those traceries of the 
weed — fresh and perfect as if the plant were living, 
yet firmly and inextricably embedded in the solid 
rock ! Nor can we, while contemplating this 
Museum, and investigating its invaluable records 
of the past, refuse our admiration of the labours 
of its founder, of the talent, enthusiasm, genius — 
call it what we will — which has induced him to 
" spurn delights and live laborious days," to un- 
dertake the most trying, mental labours, the most 
arduous personal researches, the most laborious 
manual operations, in extricating from the rocks 
which entombed them these wonders of nature ! 
Nor, finally, can we quit the scene of our ob- 
servations, without feeling that elevation of the 
mind, that purifying of the heart, which are ever 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 27 

produced by our retirement, however temporary, 
from the petty concerns of life, to our contem- 
plation of nature, and our consequent adoration 
of its Divine Author ! To borrow the language 
of a popular living writer : — - 

" 'Tis not this rare Museum's highest praise 
To charm the learned and the scientific ; 
But that in all beholders it must raise 

Feelings and thoughts of holiness prolific ! 

■" For who that once within its verge hath trod. 
And of its prodigies been made spectator, 
But 'looks through nature up to nature's God,' 
And in his creatures owns the great Creator!" 

Horace Smith. 



c2 



HENRI LAROCHE JAQUELEIN TO HIS 
SOLDIERS. 



" In the morning La Roche Jaquelein put himself at their head, 
and addressed them in words which will be remembered as long as 

the memory of heroic actions shall be preserved by history 

' Friends, if my father was here you would have confidence in 
him. I am only a boy ; but by my courage I will show myself 
worthy of commanding you. If I advance, — follow me ! If I 
give way, — kill me ! If I fall, — revenge me ! ' These were his 
genuine words, and no finer are to be found in the annals of any 
age or country : — ' Mes amis, si mon pere etait ici, vous auriez 
confiance en lui. Pour moi, je ne suis qu'un enfant; mais par 
mon courage, je me montrerai digne de vous commander. Si 
j'avance, suivez moi; si je recule, tuez moi; si je meurs, vengez 
moi! '"- — Quarterly Review. — No. XXX. 



'Twas in that fatal fever-trance 
Which ages yet may mourn, 

When all the fairest fields of France 
Lay wasted and forlorn ! 

Before his band a leader stood 
With dauntless look and tone, 

And offered up his young life-blood 
For the altar and the throne ! 



LAROCHE JAQUELEIN TO HIS SOLDIERS. 29 

In brighter days and happier hours, 

"Mid pleasure's gay resorts, 
He had shone the pride of beauty's bowers, 

The darling 1 of her courts ! 



But young Henri's darker lot was cast 
Amid the hapless brave ; 

The hour of conflict was his last, 
The battle-field his grave ! 

And his spirit sank in lone despair 
As he look'd on his feeble throng ; 

For they were but a handful there, 
And their foes were thousands strong. 

Alas ! a weak and wasted band, 
Was all that cause could bring ; 

And few there were in all the land 
For God and for their King ! 

And there 'mid pause of eye and breath, 

Ere yet the thunders woke, 
Their leader gave the charge of death, 

And thus brave Henri spoke : — 



" If, soldiers, in yon hostile ranks 
Your leader's form ye see, 

Then rush like rivers o'er their banks. 
And, comrades, follow me ! 



30 LAROCHE JAQUELEIN TO HIS SOLDIERS. 

" But should I play a coward part, 
And shrink in yonder strife, 
Then plunge your sabres in my heart, 
And take a traitor's life ! 

" But, brethren, if I brave my lot, 
And find a glorious doom ; 
If my knell be yonder cannon-shot, 
And this green sward my tomb ; 

" Then, comrades, vent no idle woes, 
Nor waste in sighs your breath ! 
But on ! and let your slaughter'd foes 
Avenge your leader's death ! " 



FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 



The reign of the Emperor Diocletian exhibits 
one of those few periods in which the falling 
fortunes of the Roman empire were sustained with 
a courage, and retrieved with a success, worthy 
of her best days, and the triumphs and achieve- 
ments of war were secured by the policy of 
moderation and peace. A few adverse events, 
a few unworthy actions, alone dim the glories of 
his illustrious reign ; and the persecution of the 
Christians is the darkest blemish which stains the 
otherwise spotless mirror of his life and rule. 

The philosophic sovereign, who himself had 
been raised from slavery to a throne, lost no 
opportunity of promoting all whose talents and 
virtues rendered them worthy of such distinc- 
tion. Among those who had possessed the good 
fortune and the merit to be thus honoured by their 
sovereign, none better deserved the elevation than 



0% FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 

the youthful Flavianus. Of humble birth, the 
child of poor but respected parents, he owed his 
advancement entirely to his merits, and was pro- 
moted, from one rank to another, until he attained 
a distinguished command in the body-guard of the 
emperor. A native of Rome, he had joined the 
legionary standards at an early a,ge ; and at a period 
of life when many had scarcely begun their course 
of glory, had shared in so many campaigns, and 
obtained so many triumphs, as entitled him to 
the honours and the rank of a veteran who has 
terminated his career. Under the command of 
Maximian, whom Diocletian had associated with 
himself as a partner of the empire, he had waged 
a fierce and prosperous w r arfare with the insurgent 
peasants of Gaul; and when he had vanquished 
them in the field, employed the influence he had 
obtained with the government, in interceding for 
these oppressed creatures whom tyranny had driven 
into rebellion ; and obtained, in many instances, 
the grant of life and liberty to those who fain 
would have deprived him of his own. And w r hen 
the prudent emperor determined to increase the 
monarchical authority, by investing tw r o other 
individuals with sovereign rank and power, and 
Galerius and Constantius were appointed Caesars, 
the youthful soldier was invested with an im- 
portant command, under the orders of the former, 



FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 33 

in the Persian war, — suffered with him the dis- 
graceful defeat of Carrhae, and with him retrieved 
the honour of the Roman arms, by the subse- 
quent victory over the Great King. Honoured 
by the intimacy and esteem of Galerius, he soon 
acquired that of Diocletian himself; was invited 
by the emperor to accompany him to Rome, and 
witness the memorable triumph of himself and his 
associate Maximian; and was farther urged to 
retire to his favourite residence at Nicomedia, and 
partake of the philosophic leisure which the en- 
lightened monarch prized as the most desirable 
condition of existence. Here, favoured with the 
friendship, and rewarded by the munificence of 
his sovereign, he could reasonably look forward to 
obtaining the highest honours which ambition could 
offer, should he feel disposed to re-enter her career ; 
or, if he preferred the repose of peace and learned 
leisure, he could hope for the most undisturbed 
enjoyment of these in the companionship of his 
gifted and philosophic prince. And a yet softer 
tie was added to those which bound the youthful 
veteran with their silken cords : the young, and 
beautiful, and high-born Lucilla, amid a crowd 
of less-favoured rivals, honoured the envied Fla- 
vianus with evident partiality, and awarded to him 
the preference for which so many sighed in vain. 
Her father had shared the fortunes of the emperor, 
c3 



34 FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 

and, like all his partners and friends in early life, 
had also partaken of the good fortune of his maturer 
years ; having been recently appointed to one of 
those stations of rank and influence in the house- 
hold of Diocletian, which had been created when 
the policy or the inclination of that prince impelled 
him to introduce the magnificence of the East into 
the imperial courts of the West. The emperor, 
it was understood, knew and approved the attach- 
ment of the lovers, and had even been pleased 
to express his satisfaction that the daughter of 
one of the most faithful of his servants was thus 
to be entrusted to one of the bravest and most 
distinguished of his warriors. 

Matters wore this aspect, when, during the stay 
of the Imperial court at Rome, Flavianus called 
one morning to pay his usual attentions to his 
young and fair, but somewhat capricious mistress. 

He found her seated in a lofty atrium, on a 
couch of ivory, the feet of which were of onyx, 
while its draperies were formed of the rich and 
rare silks of Persia and the East, and he saw her 
surrounded by the usual attendants on the levee of 
a lady of distinction of that era. Intermingled with 
her slaves and domestics, were dispersed about the 
apartment the various ministers of luxury and 
ease, v^hose services were most in request : — here 
a Persian merchant had availed himself of the 



FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 35 

prevailing peace, to bring specimens of the newest 
and most beautiful productions of eastern, looms, — 
there an Alexandrian displayed the exquisite ves- 
sels of glassy the fabrics of his native city, whose 
elegance of form, and pure unsullied whiteness of 
tint, were unattainable by Italian skill, — there a 
Greek artist awaited his turn to solicit attention 
to those cameos and gems, the beauty of whose 
engravings alike excelled the efforts of native 
talent,— and here also, as too often has been the 
case elsewhere and since, those aspirants who were 
admitted to the closest intimacy, and honoured 
with the most intimate confidence of the party 
solicited, were precisely those least deserving such 
preference. On her right, his swarthy face peer- 
ing over the marble neck of the fair patroness, was 
a Moor, insisting on the virtues of his philtres, 
infallible as love potions ; his charms and amulets, 
omnipotent against witchcraft and the evil eye ; — 
on her left, an Egyptian sibyl was urging her 
skill in necromancy, and seizing and half-open- 
ing the hand which lay carelessly extended on 
the rich drapery of the couch, was engaged in 
exploring on its gentle, unfurrowed surface the 
future fortunes of its fair possessor. Her imme- 
diate attention was devoted to sitting for her por- 
trait to Barillus, an Athenian, who had obtained 
the patronage of all the fashionable ladies in Rome 



36 FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 

as a painter of likenesses, his recommendation 
being, that he was understood to preserve the 
resemblance, and yet increase the beauty of his 
fair originals, with greater skill and success than 
any cotemporary artist. 

On the announcement of Flavianus the various 
suitors for her favour or her custom were succes- 
sively and briefly dismissed. The fortune-teller 
was bid to study her coming fortunes in the ves- 
tibule ; the Moor was dismissed to offer his charms 
to those who had none of their own ; even the artist 
was desired to retire and wait an interval ere he 
pursued his task ; and the crowd of merchants, jewel- 
lers, traders, and other aspirants for her patronage, 
were put off to a time when she should be better 
able to investigate their claims to her attention. 

The youthful suitor, on his entrance, attempted 
an apology for having thus broken in on her leisure, 
and disturbed occupations so various and important; 
but, with a sweet yet languid smile, she begged 
that he would abstain from excuses which were 
wholly needless. " Those people are so numerous," 
she said, " and so tiresome !" and she reclined with 
an air of languor on the cushions placed at the 
back of the couch. 

The youth offered the usual common-place com- 
pliments, and gradually led his fair companion into 
a conversation of the same character with that 



FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 37 

which young gentlemen, especially of the military 
order, have talked with young ladies from the 
earliest periods of polished society till the present, 
and which they will doubtless continue to talk as 
long as society shall exist. He hoped her health 
was good ; that she was pleased with Rome ; and 
had enjoyed its various attractions, amusements, 
and charms. Among other topics, he mentioned 
that the capital had not the happiness of pleas- 
ing its Imperial master, who, disgusted with its 
enormous crowds, and the free, intrusive manners 
of its inhabitants, so different from the gentle cha- 
racter of the inhabitants of Asia Minor, and the 
deference and respect with which they had been 
accustomed to regard him, had determined to leave 
the metropolis of the w T orld at the earliest possible 
period, and return to his beloved Nicomedia and 
its milder inhabitants. This information was given 
under the strictest injunctions of concealment to 
his fair companion, and, like many other state 
secrets, was told the next day to all her female 
friends and acquaintance, with the same scru- 
pulous injunctions of secrecy, which were of course 
just as scrupulously obeyed ! 

" Any news, my Flavianus ?" she inquired, as the 
fire of their converse was about to languish for want 
of fresh fuel. 

" None," he replied, " of a foreign or important 



38 FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 

character;" and he discussed the various subjects 
of political interest in that easy, familiar, but lively 
manner, in which a man commonly talks on matters 
of business with his wife, or, still more, his lover. 
" None, anima mea" was his answer ; " absolutely 
none. Silly people, who know nothing of the 
matter, talk indeed of war, but rely on it there will 
be none ; they say the Persian will again attack 
us, but this is a mere mistake ; his chastisement in 
the late struggle was too severe, and he will not be 
such a fool as to annoy us again." 

" So you have no novelty, then, to impart?" 

" None — stay, — yes — the Imperator mentioned 
this morning, while chatting on his way to the bath, 
but this is a secret, psuche mou, that he had deter- 
mined to inflict summary punishment on the Chris- 
tians." 

" The Christians!" asked Lucilla; "who are 
they ? " for her reading, though as extensive per- 
haps as that of any young lady of her age and time, 
had not, we regret to state, extended so far as to 
render her acquainted with the obscure sect. 

" O, unbelievers, absolute deniers of the 
gods." 

" Impossible," said the incredulous listener, 
" there can be no such people ! This sect may 
possibly have their own deities, but they cannot 
reject ours. Under different forms, names, and 



FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 39 

circumstances, thou oft hast told me our divinities 
are adored over the whole earth ; — our terrific 
Xeptune — our bright and beautiful Apollo — our 
thunder-bearing Jove — are known and revered at 
least by all the better portion of mankind. Think, 
Flaviane mi" said the fond admiring beauty, as 
she played with the ringlets of his brow, " think of 
a set of fanatics who could refuse to worship — to 
adore a Mars ! ! ' 

The young soldier was not to be outdone in 
courtesy, and added, almost involuntarily, " Nay, 
such heretics might be, and possibly are ; but 
who, vita mea, could refuse his adoration to Venus 
herself?" 

" Yet believe me, Lucilla," he continued ; " the 
tale, however strange, is true, though thy pure 
mind would fain disbelieve such impiety. These 
Christians are so impious as to reject our holy 
religion, sanctioned as it is by the maxims of phi- 
losophers, the precepts of sages, and the charms of 
poetry ; with hands and hearts impious, yet power- 
less as the Titans of old, they have attacked the 
high Olympus, and would fain hurl the deities from 
its heights, but in vain ! Our faith is too firmly 
established to dread their impiety, and will survive 
when their very name is forgotten. The deities 
themselves will avenge their neglected worship ; 
their insulted rites, their outraged altars ; the 



40 FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 

thunders of Jove will smite them, the darts of 
Apollo reach them in their flight, the winds of 
iEolus sweep them from the face of the earth ! " 
and the young Roman, fired with hallowed indig- 
nation, started from the seat on which he was 
leaning, rose instinctively to his feet, and his eye 
shot flame, and his cheek glowed with rage and 
anger, as he denounced the sacrilegious sect. 

His fair auditor shared his rage, and her fine 
brow was clouded with displeasure : her eye lighted 
with kindred fires as she exclaimed, " Nor will the 
divinities of our gentle sex suffer calmly the sa- 
crilegious injury. The majesty of Juno, the beauty 
of Anadyomene, the chastity of Diana, the wisdom 
of Athene, will arm every Roman, every man, in 
their cause. And I pray thee, Flavianus, what 
deities are they whom these atheists would substi- 
tute in their stead ?" 

But he regretted his inability to afford any satis- 
factory information. That they were haters, deniers 
of the gods, atheists, impious, he felt assured ; but 
of their principles, their conduct, their character, — 
he knew nothing. He then mentioned, with the 
same injunction of secrecy as before, that the 
emperor had declared his intention, at the first mo- 
ment of leisure, to exterminate these sacrilegious 
ones, and to expunge the name of Christian from 
the earth. And both agreed in the wisdom, jus- 



FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 41 

tice, and policy of his determination, and thanked 
the gods for having sent them such a sovereign. 

And now, at length, the youth adverted to a theme 
from which he had long and painfully refrained. 
" And when, sweet Lucilia," he exclaimed, "when 
shall we name the day, the happy hour, that makes 
thee mine — say, w T hen shall I be blest ? Quando tu 
Caia, quando ego Cains?" asked the impassioned 
youth ; and the yielding happy girl named an early 
day on their return to Nicomedia as the period of 
their mutual felicity. 

Time passed, the splendid triumph of Diocletian 
took place, and Rome, for the last time, beheld an 
emperor enter her gates in triumph ! The politic 
sovereign speedily withdrew, as Flavianus had 
predicted, to his favourite Nicomedia, to pursue 
his plans of policy and government, and determine 
the fate of his Christian subjects. The suspense was 
not of long duration, the fatal edict of extermination 
was pronounced, and all who refused compliance 
with the will of their persecutors and tyrants, 
suffered the tortures and the martyrdom, which 
they preferred to the idolatry and superstition they 
contemned. Among those who persisted in their 
refusal to obey the commands of the tyrant, the 
name of Adauctus is enshrined in the annals of 
Christianity as one of the earliest professors of her 
faith, one of the foremost in her army of martyrs, 



42 FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 

The philosophic and temperate character of Diocle- 
tian, rendered him, as is well known, averse to 
deeds of cruelty and bloodshed ; and it was rather 
from the advice of bigotted and evil counsellors, 
than from the feelings of his own heart, that he 
was induced to issue the order for persecution, 
and even then he left the execution to other hands, 
and only interposed himself to mitigate the cruelty 
of his own decrees, and rescue, if possible, his 
victims from the fate to which he had exposed 
them. When among the list of the proscribed 
the name of Adauctus was given in, and he saw 
one of his earliest and most trusty servants, of his 
oldest and most tried friends, about to fall, a victim, 
the heart of the emperor relented, and he deter- 
mined, if possible, to rescue one whom he so much 
valued, from his impending fate. Knowing the deter- 
mination and zeal, or the obstinacy and infatuation, 
as it was then called, of the Christians, he resolved 
to entrust the matter to no common chance, but 
to despatch instantly to Rome, where Adauctus 
was committed to prison, a friend on whose zeal 
and intelligence he could rely, for the purpose 
of visiting the captive in his confinement, and 
by every possible means inducing him to return to 
the faith he had abjured. His choice fell on Fla- 
vianus, who, flattered with so signal a mark of 
confidence, and anxious to display his zeal in the 



FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 43 

conversion of a heretic, joyfully accepted the 
mission ; and after a brief, but affecting farewell 
of Lucilla, repaired to the imperial city, and sought 
the prison of Adauctus. He had formerly enjoyed 
the friendship of that officer, and flattered himself 
with the hope of easily bringing him to yield com- 
pliance with the humane and benevolent solicitation 
with which he was charged. But what was his 
surprise when he found the prisoner, sensible and 
grateful indeed both to the clemency of his imperial 
master, and the zeal of his friend, yet firmly and 
decisively resolved to be governed by higher duties 
than those which even loyalty or friendship could 
impose, and determined to obey alone a heavenly 
ruler, to comply with the dictates only of a celestial 
friend ! In vain did the ardent Flavianus picture 
to his view the bright prospects of life and liberty, 
of honour, wealth, and ambition, which lay open to 
him if he would retract his present opinions ; and 
on the other hand, the disgrace, imprisonment, 
suffering, and certain death which awaited his 
obstinate adherence to those tenets. The patient 
captive lent a respectful, but firm attention, and 
mildly, but resolutely declared that he had chosen 
his part; that life, and liberty, and ambition, 
and wealth, had for him no charms ; captivity, tor- 
ture, and death, no horrors, could they but enable 
him to win that crown of martyrdom to which, 



44 FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 

albeit unworthy, he meekly, yet fervently aspired ! 
Astonished at the gentle, yet determined magna- 
nimity of the prisoner, Flavianus was induced to 
inquire deeply into the motives which prompted 
a course so contrary to the usual motives of human 
conduct, and was gradually led first to wonder, 
next to admire, and lastly, in some degree to share 
them. Like Festus sitting in judgment on St. Paul, 
he was awed by the eloquence, the heroism, the 
resignation of the captive ; and while, like Paul, 
Adauctus reasoned of " righteousness, temperance, 
and judgment to come," Flavianus, like Felix, 
trembled, and like him exclaimed, " Almost thou 
persuadest me to be a Christian !" Unlike that 
character, however, he put not off the day of con- 
version to that " more convenient season," which 
so seldom arrives ; but with all the nobleness of 
heroism and self-devotion, embraced the faith of the 
sufferer, encouraged him to perseverance and self- 
sacrifice, gratefully avowed himself his convert, and 
departed from Rome for Nicomedia, only to avow 
a similar determination, and await a similar fate. 

Returning thither, he first sought the dwelling 
of Lucilla, to avow to her the change in his senti- 
ments ; resign his interest in her love, and bid 
her an eternal farewell ! And difficult and almost 
impossible was the task to convince her of his sin- 
cerity, or even of his sanity. To imagine that he 



FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 4o 

had abandoned or betrayed the confidence of his 
benefactor and sovereign, had himself followed the 
example of defection, and embraced the faith which 
he once laboured to destroy, was a change too 
strange, too rapid to be at once believed or under- 
stood ; and it was not till after a long conference 
that he succeeded, by the calmness of his manner, 
and the decision of his reasoning, in convincing her 
that he was following the dictates of the coolest 
judgment, and not the mere phantasy of a heated 
imagination. " Farewell, my Lucilla," was his 
last exclamation, " moribundus te salutor. I go 
from thy beloved arms to prison, to judgment, and 
to death, a death of which I am all unworthy, yet 
which I proudly and joyfully meet and welcome ! 
A few short hours of misery, of prison, and trial, 
and the stake, and I exchange these temporary, 
these passing evils, for an eternity of bliss. Forget, 
O my Lucilla, that Flavianus lived, that Flavianus 
loved ! " And he tore himself from her arms and 
left the hall. 

Animated with the full spirit of his faith, he next 
sought the imperial palace, and was hailed by 
Diocletian with looks and accents of joy. 

" Well," exclaimed the monarch, " thy task, I 
hope, is accomplished, and thy prisoner, released 
from the bonds of captivity, and from those worse 
fetters which have enchained his mind, lives to hail 



48 FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 

our clemency, and bless the gods whom he had 
offended, 

With faltering, yet determined accents, and looks, 
in which decision and humility were strikingly 
blended, the youth replied to the ardent inquiries 
of his sovereign, by relating the determination of 
the prisoner, and his own conversion. 

The surprise, the indignation of the emperor, 
now burst through all bounds. To be betrayed, 
as he conceived himself to be, by the confidant 
whom he had entrusted with his most valued se- 
crets ; to find the servants of his house, the depen- 
dents on his bounty, following the example of 
disobedience, and one after the other embracing 
a faith which he had sworn to exterminate, excited 
his rage beyond all limits ; and, calling for a band 
of his Praetorians, who were in attendance, he 
directed the youth to be consigned to the public 
prison. 

A return of affection induced him, in a few days, 
to mitigate, if possible, the fate of his victim, and 
he despatched emissaries to his place of confine- 
ment, to induce him to forsake the new faith 
which he had professed, and return to the religion 
of his fathers. But, as was usually the case with 
converts to Christianity, these efforts only served 
to confirm the determination they were intended 
to weaken. In answer to the entreaties of his 



FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 47 

friends, and the solicitations, threats, and com- 
mands of the emperor, his replies were meek 
and temperate, but decided and resigned. He 
expressed his grateful sense of the bounty of his 
sovereign, his readiness to serve, honour, and 
obey him in all things, save those for which 
he was amenable to a higher authority. The 
rejections of his offers of mercy exasperated the 
monarch, and with some compunction he left his 
former favourite to his fate. Summoned before 
his judges, the youth repeated all his previous 
declarations ; and while he acknowledged the 
lenity of his sovereign as a ruler, he denounced 
him as a persecutor, and an enemy to the true God ! 
But one course remained ; his judges could not but 
convict an accused who gloried in the acts of 
which he was charged, and by the unanimous voice 
of all, he was condemned to the stake ! 

The brief space which intervened between the 
judgment and its execution, was devoted by the 
martyr to offices of prayer, and praise, and duties 
of devotion. Fervent appeals to the one only God 
for protection and support; hymns of praise for his 
mercies and consolations ; pious meditations, on 
the example of the admired Adauctus, who, he 
doubted not, had already attained the crown of 
martyrdom, to which both looked forward, formed 
the sole occupation of the captive, who languished 



48 FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 

in his solitary dungeon for the fiery trial which 
should release him. The fear of displeasing a 
watchful and jealous master, deterred the cour- 
tiers, his former friends, from visiting him now,— 
one only being came to minister and receive con- 
solation — and that visitor w r as Lucilla ! O 
woman! thy virtues, like the mild, meek lustre 
of thy, perhaps, fairest emblem, the orb of night, 
shine not out in the glare of day, but await the 
hour of darkness and of sorrow to beam forth in 
all their meek and gentle beauty, to shed their 
sweet and soothing consolation ! While man 
ignobly quailed before the will of a despot, and 
abandoned his suffering friend, she feared not 
danger, — she braved persecution, — left the gilded 
halls of her paternal palace to visit the dark 
and noisome cells of a prison, and spurned the 
admiration of the world, to soothe the sorrows 
of a captive ! Her first efforts were directed to 
effect the reconversion of her lover, and bring him 
back to the ancient faith ; but finding these un- 
availing, she was led to inquire into his motives, 
to investigate the causes of his conduct, and was 
won at length to admire and participate in them. 
In their frequent colloquies, he explained to her 
the beauties and glories of the Christian faith and 
practice, as contrasted with the folly and guilt 
of Pagan superstition and Pagan crime, — dweJt 



FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 49 

on the duty of choosing the better and rejecting 
the worse, and of coming forward whenever she 
felt sufficiently established in the faith, and openly 
and fearlessly avowing it. " I will, my Flavianus," 
was the heroic answer ; " I will join thee ere 
long, and we shall yet be united,- — united in the 
heaven thy revelation hath disclosed !" 

Meanwhile the dread day of execution arrived. 
The emperor, from real or assumed feelings of 
regret, directed the windows of his palace to be 
closed, in order not to witness the sad spectacle of 
the execution of a former friend. At an early 
hour the unhappy prisoner was brought from the 
jail, — his dress the garb of the lowest malefactors ; 
his hands and feet manacled with heavy chains ; 
yet his look preserved the original nobility of his 
demeanour, though tempered with a humility and 
resignation unknown in earlier days. His eye was 
lifted in meek adoration to heaven ; his lips moved 
in silent prayer. He pursued his painful pilgrimage 
to the place of execution, — a mound slightly ele- 
vated, at a short distance from the city. Arrived 
at the spot, no time was allowed him to address 
the people, but his sentence was read while he 
was bound to the stake ; and the torch being in- 
stantly applied, the flames of martyrdom ascended 
fierce and fast around the head of their victim) 
Suddenly at this instant was beheld an apparition 

D 



50 FLAVIANUS AND LUCILLA. 

of strange and exceeding beauty ,■ — a female tall 
and beautiful ; her clothes of that pure white, 
bordered with purple, her hair bound with that 
wreath, which form the distinguishing vestures of 
the bride, — was seen rushing towards the stake. 
The soldiers, alarmed at such a prodigy, gave way, 
and opened a passage to the stake ; and Lucilla, 
for she it was who sought and found the fiery 
union with her lover, rushed into the flames, em- 
bracing with the strong grasp of love the burning 
body of her betrothed. He feebly and instinc- 
tively endeavoured to save her from so horrible a 
death, by gently forcing her back ; and the attend- 
ing guards, recovered from their momentary sur- 
prise, alike attempted to remove her — but in vain ! 
She clung yet closer to her lover ; the flames which 
consumed him, caught her own loose, bridal gar- 
ments. " I come, rny Flavianus," was her cry ; 
"according to my promise, I come !" And as the 
fierce, devouring element mantled over her head, 
igniting her long and lovely tresses, and wrapping 
her garments and her frame in sheets of fire, she 
sank in the arms of her lover, and both found the 
death they had so ardently sought ! 



LINES 

RECITED AT THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF THE 

SUSSEX ROYAL INSTITUTION AND MANTELLIAN 
MUSEUM. 



When wrapt in primal night Creation lay, 
And Nature languished for the birth of day ; 
While yet the world no bliss of light enjoy 'd, 
And Earth and Ocean lay a formless void ; 
Then God's own Spirit moving o'er the deep, 
Awakened Chaos from its lifeless sleep ; 
Chas'd from the dreary void the gloom of night, 
And said, " Let Light appear, and all was light!" 
Soon as the bright and blissful boon was given, 
All Nature hail'd this first, best gift of Heaven. 
Then loud hosannas through creation rang, 
Then all the Morning Stars together sang ; 
Angelic natures shar'd the blest employ, 
And all the Sons of God were heard to shout with joy ! 

E'en thus in later times to darkness hurled, 
A kindred gloom o'erspread the moral world ; 
Primeval Night usurped her early reign, 
Earth's ancient darkness lived and ruled again ; 
D2 



52 ANNIVERSARY LINES. 

And mental gloom, and ignorance, and crime, 
Recall'd the chaos of the earliest time! 
When lo ! the Spirit of th' Eternal woke, 
Again the dawn of light, of knowledge broke ; 
Again the Spirit of th' Immortal Mind 
Revealed the boon of science to mankind, 
Gave to some favour'd son, some child of earth, 
A ray divine, a spark of heavenly birth ; 
Nor lent the blessing to his single breast, 
But bade his spirit light and guide the rest ! 

Thus was a Newton taught to trace the skies, 
And show how countless worlds on worlds arise : 
Thus Milton soared in all the bliss of song, 
Caught the blest accents of th' ethereal throng, 
Rose to the heights of heaven, and linger'd there, 
" An earthly guest, and drew empyreal air!" 
And many a pilgrim of this vale of tears 
Came but to point and lead to brighter spheres ! 

Yet while each realm of Nature and of Mind 
Revealed the secrets in its depths confined, 
One spot alone remained — this teeming earth 
Lay all unknown — its wonders and their birth, 
Until some master-spirit dared explore 
Its hidden myst'ries — myst'ries now no more, 
Since Leibnitz, Werner, Cuvier, brought to view 
Its varied states and changes ever new ! 
And last a Mantell, on his native soil, 
With mind untir'd, with self-requiting toil, 
Disclos'd a mine, with treasures all replete, 
And oped a scene of wonders at our feet ; 



ANNIVERSARY LINES. 53 

And as Columbus to th' admiring world 
Another sphere of light and life unfurled, 
So to our awe-struck mind and startled gaze. 
Our Mantell wakes a world of other days ; 
Annuls the former bounds of space and time, 
Recalls to life creations all sublime ; 
Revives again the forms that breathed of yore, 
And bids earth's wildest wonders live once more ! 

And while a Newton bids us gaze on high, 

And trace our Maker mirror 'd in the sky ; 

As Milton bade th' aspiring spirit soar 

To heights of heaven, and wonder and adore, 

And share in bliss to nobler natures given, 

And taste on this poor earth the joys of heaven ; 

So, taught by Mantell's science, we may bring 

" Sermons from stones, and good from every thing;" 

Learn holiest lessons from each stone or clod, 

And "look through Nature up to Nature's God!" 



THE CULPRIT, 



The little village of H - is one of the most 

picturesque, healthy, and delightful, of those which 
lie embosomed amid the valleys of the South 
Downs. From the salubrity of its site and the 
mildness of its air, it is frequently resorted to by 
invalids and persons in quest of recovery ; and it 
was at the close of a severe illness which attacked 
me in childhood that I was placed there for a short 
period, under the care of a lady who was the widow 
of a former curate. Mrs. Thompson, left with an 
only son, preferred this retreat to the gayer scenes 
of the metropolis, which she had previously in- 
habited. Here she could better economize the 
little stipend on which she depended for support ; 
here she could indulge in her admiration of nature 
and a country life, for which she had imbibed a 
strong partiality, while she felt more at liberty to 
direct her attention to her son, whose education 
devolved wholly on herself. The many years which 



THE CULPRIT. 55 

have since elapsed have not effaced her from my 
memory, and her slender and elegant form, her fine 
oval features, and the gentle tones of her voice, are 
as strongly as ever impressed on my recollection. 
My stay was comparatively short, for the genial 
atmosphere of the place, assisted by youth and a 
good constitution, speedily repaired the effects of 
illness, and a short time sufficed to restore me to 
my parents in renewed health and vigour. Our 
little circle consisted of Mrs. Thompson herself, a 
female domestic of middle years, and a remark- 
ably pretty and engaging girl of about the age of 
her son, who assisted in the domestic duties, and 
whom she requited by a trifling w T eekly payment, 
and by innumerable acts of kindness and affection. 
The smallest family has its portion of trouble, or 
its unworthy member, and even at this early period 
the unhappy and evil disposition of William Thomp- 
son developed itself in various modes calculated to 
wound the heart and alarm the mind of a parent, 
The circumstances which gave her the deepest pain 
were his utter repugnance to learning, and his per- 
fect insensibility to kindness. No inducement, 
whether of reward or punishment, could incite him 
to apply to learning ; he threw his books aside at 
the first opportunity, and despised and neglected 
all the lessons of his mother ; while to her repeated 
prayers, entreaties, and every inducement that 



56 THE CULPRIT. 

affection could suggest, he turned a deaf, unheeding 
ear. Malevolent, mischievous, and evil, he took an 
unnatural delight in rendering others as perverse 
as himself, and many were the instances of mischief, 
and, I regret to add, of falsehood, into which I was 
led by his example, and even by his direct solici- 
tation. His evil conduct was a source of bitter 
sorrow to his afflicted parent and her friends, and 
it was easy, even at that early age, to perceive that 
he w T as likely to grow up a bad man, and to entail 
misery and disgrace on himself and his connexions. 
After my return home, I occasionally saw Mrs. 
Thompson, and learned with regret that William 
was pursuing his evil courses ; that after leaving 
school with the opprobrium of mischief, falsehood, 
and even theft, he had absconded from the employ 
of a tradesman, to whom, in despair of qualifying 
him for a profession, his mother had apprenticed 
him. Her health was represented as having 
given way under the sorrow occasioned by his ill 
conduct, and the next intelligence informed us that 
her days, which, like those of the patriarch, were 
" evil and few," had closed in sorrow and tribula- 
tion. In the fearful crisis of 1825, a mercantile 
house, that of a relation, in whose hands her little 
fortune was, perhaps imprudently, placed, became 
bankrupt, and her worldly all was gone. Distress 
and suffering, coupled with the anguish inflicted 



THE CULPRIT. 57 

by the continued misconduct of her son, whose evil 
propensities had grown with his years, until he was 
all but an outcast, overpowered her mind and 
frame, and after a short and rapid illness, she sank 
in that repose " where the wicked cease from 
troubling, and where the weary are at rest !" At 
her decease her little establishment was broken up ; 
and her furniture, books, and effects, were sold by 
her son, who speedily squandered the amount in low 
debauchery, and never even defrayed the expenses 
of his mother's funeral. He now sank rapidly lower 
in the scale of misery and degradation ; he had no 
ostensible pursuit, no settled abode ; his home was 
the beershop or the alehouse ; his companions 
poachers, vagabonds, and thieves ; and how his 
livelihood was obtained no one could tell, though n o 
one doubted that it was gained by wicked and guilty 
means. Time passed on ; for several 3 7 ears I heard 
nothing of the unworthy companion of my child- 
hood, and had, indeed, lost sight of him in the 
crowd of the world, when, on returning home one 
evening, I found a note, ill written and worse spelt, 
signed almost illegibly with the name " W. Thomp- 
son," in w T hich the writer claimed my acquaintance 
as having known him in boyhood, and solicited my 
assistance to relieve him in a state of extreme 
poverty and destitution. My servant informed me 
that the note was left by one of three persons who 

d3 



58 THE CULPRIT. 

had called that evening, that they were of extremely 
shabby appearance, and evidently in a state of in- 
toxication. I left a small amount to be delivered 
in answer to the note, and took measures not 
to see the writer when he called. A circum- 
stance also reached my ear about this time (though 
at present I am unable to state whether it was 
before or after the period of his visit at my house,) 
which was of so revolting a nature as to complete 
the disgust which his character and conduct in- 
spired. He had continued on terms of intimacy 
with the female whom I have already mentioned 
as the inmate of his mother's house in child- 
hood, and who, in the course of years, had grown 
up a fine young woman, admired for her personal 
attractions, and esteemed for her virtuous and 
becoming conduct. He had even professed to pay 
her attentions as a lover ; but, though she felt an 
interest in his welfare, as the son of her regretted 
mistress and benefactress, his character was far too 
repugnant and dissimilar to her own to allow her 
to receive his attentions, and she discouraged his 
addresses in the most decided manner. He, how- 
ever, found means, one Sunday evening, to induce 
her to accompany him for a walk, and having led 
her up a by-lane, with the brutality of a savage 
and the wickedness of a fiend, attempted an assault 
of a most atrocious character. Fortunately her 



THE CULPRIT. 59 

screams caught the ears of some persons returning 
from a neighbouring chapel, who hastened to her 
assistance, and deprived the ravisher of his victim. 
The matter, at the earnest entreaty of the poor girl 
herself, was hushed up, and he was spared the 
penalty of public exposure and public punishment. 

I had, indeed, all but forgotten that such a 
person had ever existed, when the day before the 
last Spring Assizes I received a subpoena requiring 
my attendance at the County Hall at — — , to 
appear as a witness on the trial of William Thomp- 
son. I repaired the next morning to the town, 
which is a few miles only from my place of abode. 

The holding the assizes in a country town is an 
event fraught with considerable importance, and 
the circumstances with which it is associated are 
calculated most powerfully to excite the attention 
and impress the feelings of the observers. The 
entry of the judges, the representatives of the 
majesty of the law — the trumpets which herald their 
approach — the robe and ermine with which they 
are invested — the almost regal honours with which 
they are attended, and the all but regal respect with 
which they are regarded — the sheriff in his court 
dress and with his armed attendants, the personi- 
fication of the executive power, subordinate, how- 
ever, to the superior dignity of the law itself — the 
associations which are connected with these person- 



60 THE CULPRIT. 

ages, the reflection that their advent brings tidings 
of life and liberty, or of death, imprisonment, or 
exile, to those who fearfully and anxiously await 
their coming in the prisons to which they are con- . 
signed; these, with other accessories, which the 
fancy may readily supply, combine to produce a 
scene of no ordinary excitemeat and importance. 

I repaired, the moment of my arrival, to the 
office of the respectable solicitors who had summoned 
me on the occasion, to ascertain the purport of my 
having been cited, and to learn what farther intel- 
ligence might be necessary for my guidance. 

I was ushered into a low gloomy parlour, one 
part of which was occupied by a desk strewed with 
fusty-looking papers; while another was filled with 
a similar piece of furniture, at which a pale-faced, 
thin man, in a suit of rusty black, was intently 
engaged in copying some papers. On my request- 
ing to see " one of the partners," he rose and 
rang a small hand-bell, which summoned the party 
inquired for into the room. 

He was a short and rather stout man, with that 
smirking look and fidgetty expression of face which 
are the usual characteristics of the genus Lawyer, 
species Attorney. His name was Grub, and he was 
the junior associate of the every way respectable 
firm of Grindem and Grub. 

On announcing my name and errand, he called 



THE CULPRIT. 61 

up as much sympathy into his face as it was capable of 
containing, and tried to look as pathetic as possible. 

" Bad business, Sir, he observed ; very bad busi- 
ness — clear case — nothing can save him, except 
perhaps a flaw in the indictment — no chance of 
that ; — attorneys for prosecution Touchem and 
Take — Touchem clever young man — articled to 
me — taught him his trade too well — no hope that 
way" — and on my interposing an expression of 
regret, he suggested, by way of consolation — " Still, 
no saying beforehand— glorious uncertainty — lucky 
thing case came into our hands — do all we can — 

matter of course ; — got Mr. for him — cleverest 

man of the circuit — ear of all the judges — lucky 
prisoner did not apply to Suckem and Dry ; they live 
over the way, Sir, that's their office — couldn't have 

got for him if he had — says he doesn't care if 

he never holds a brief for 'em again — behaved shabby 
last assizes— bad policy — rising man— ." 

I interrupted his remarks by inquiring into the 
particulars of the case, which he ran over with great 
volubility, finishing with a repetition of the same 
lamentations of " bad case — sorry for him — behaved 
very handsome — paid all — instructions for brief — 
drawing same — fair copy for counsel — attendances, 
and so on — every thing paid, isn't it, Mr. Tippins ?" 

The ghost in black turned its head, and replied 
in a solemn tone, " All right ; the young woman 



62 THE CULPRIT. 

called last night and paid the bill, and hoped we 
should do all we could for the prisoner." 

" And you told her we should, of course." 

The ghost nodded its head, but spoke not. 

" Very handsome conduct ; — sorry for him ; — best 
thing is, it isn't capital now ; — only transportation 
for life." He then added, with a serious look and 
a leer in his eye, and a whisper on his tongue, 
" Worst of it is ; judge sure to sum up against 
pris'ner, 'cause his lordship's in a hurry; — wants to 
get the business over, — -going to the continent 
next week." 

I found I was becoming acquainted with more 
secrets than I had sought. I had heard before, that 

" Wretches hang that jurymen may dine," 

but was not previously aware that the fate of a 
prisoner was liable to be influenced by the travelling 
propensities of a judge. 

" But come, Sir," added Mr. Grub, after a 
pause, " time wastes ; we'll go to court, if you 
please." And, leaving his house, we proceeded to 
the Court-house ; on the way to which, he informed 
me, that I was summoned to speak to character, — 
a step which I could not help informing him I 
considered to be useless, if not worse, as I had 
known the prisoner only when a boy ; and what I 
then knew was by no means in his favour. He, 



THE CULPRIT. 63 

however, overruled my scruples, by stating that 
where there was no defence, why — a witness to 
character was better than nothing. " It breaks 
the thing, my dear Sir," said my adviser : and, 
willing to assist a feliow T -creature, and one, too, 
whom I had known as a child, and in happier cir- 
cumstances, I readily consented to render any ser- 
vice in my power, though feeling perfectly assured 
that my testimony could be of no avail. 

We reached the County Hall, and with no small 
difficulty elbowed the way for our tw^o selves, and 
one bag of papers, to the table appropriated to 
counsel, attorneys, and reporters. My conductor 
appeared on the best of terms with every one, and 
with no one more than himself. He nodded to 
the officers of the court ; bowed to his brother 
attorneys ; smiled sweetly on the counsel ; got a 
nod from Mr. Undersheriff, and half a nod from 
the sheriff himself ! 

A court of justice presents a singular and varied 
scene, half tragic half comic, like life itself ! The 
judge all solemnity and decorum ; the sheriff 
proud of his dignity and his court dress ; the coun- 
sel pert, prim, and self-satisfied ; the jury looking fit 
to undertake any work you might put them to, 
save that of deciding on the life and liberty of a 
fellow- creature ; the crowd gazing in silent, stupid 
wonder ; the prisoner, and the prisoner's friends, 
looking on the calm, business-like scene before 



64 THE CULPRIT. 

them, with feelings of indescribable anxiety, terror, 
and dismay, — all exhibit a diversified and curious 
group from the great picture of human life. We, 
at length, reached the table, and took our seats :. 
at that moment a sort of armistice prevailed — the 
jury had turned round in the box to " consider their 
verdict," and deliberate on the fate of a wretched- 
looking youth at the bar ; our own counsel was pro- 
foundly engaged with the Times; a junior on our 
right was cutting open a new number of a peri- 
odical ; and two reporters on our left were playing 
jokes on each other, and laughing audibly. 

The jury were not long deliberating ; the awful 
" Guilty" was pronounced, and recorded by the clerk 
of the arraigns in the customary manner. I re- 
garded the decision as an ill omen, and my feelings 
w r ere yet more painfully excited when the name of 
William Thompson was pronounced, and the un- 
happy culprit of that name was brought from below, 
and placed at the bar. 

So many years had passed since I had beheld 
him, and then I had seen him only as a child, 
that I should have been utterly unable to recog- 
nise the boy, whom I once had known, in the 
hardened and reckless culprit whom I now saw 
before me. Years of dissipation had done their 
work on his features ; that amelioration of appear- 
ance which is usually remarked in prisoners, and 
is the natural result of seclusion, regular habits, 



THE CULPRIT. 65 

and abstinence from guilty or sensual indulgence, 
was by no means observable in him ; he was re- 
markable only for the brutal stupidity of his aspect; 
and he stood the portraiture of gross, hardened 
villany. He scowled gloomily at the court, 
growled a surly, " Not guilty," in answer to the 
customary inquiry, and then relapsed into a state 
of sullen, callous indifference : nor as the trial 
proceeded did he evince any greater anxiety or 
excitement. His reckless demeanour excited ge- 
neral disgust ;. and all present looked in horror at 
so young, so hardened an offender. One being 
only of the whole assembly there was, who betrayed 
the least interest in his fate ; and so poignant was 
her sorrow, so deep and melancholy the expression 
of her grief, that her sympathy alone might seem 
to compensate for the scorn or dislike of all around. 
In the first row of the spectators stood a girl, of 
the class of servants, neatly, but by no means 
showily attired, whose features, beautiful in them- 
selves, were invested with yet higher interest, 
by the care and sorrow she evinced for the un- 
happy culprit. She listened most intently to the 
progress of the trial ; and as the fearful ordeal 
proceeded, her attention arose to anxiety — to 
agony ! She watched every witness who appeared 
in the box, and caught their words as if life or 
death hung on the issue. The counsel for the 
prosecution she seemed to regard with a look almost 



66 THE CULPRIT. 

of horror ; and the advocate for the defence as an 
angel of mercy, sent to save and bless ! The spot 
in which she stood was so close to the prisoner that 
he could not but have perceived her ; yet from 
callousness or stupidity, he appeared to be altoge- 
ther careless or unconscious of her presence ; and 
no word, look, or token of recognition, passed 
between them. Silent, unnoticed, unknown, her 
feelings were all her own; and methought she 
exemplified, in her loneliness, the beautiful senti- 
ment of Scripture, that " the heart knoweth its 
own bitterness, and a stranger doth not inter- 
meddle with its joys !" 

The proceedings were commenced by the counsel 
for the prosecution stating the case to the jury. 
He adverted, with evident feeling, to the situation 
of the prisoner, who was the orphan son of a 
clergyman, had been educated with care by a 
widowed and indulgent mother, and whom he 
deeply regretted to see in his present unhappy 
position. He had no wish to aggravate the guilt 
of the case ; indeed, the instructions which he had 
received from the highly respectable prosecutor, — 
instructions with which his own feelings most fully 
accorded, — expressly directed him not to heighten 
the enormity of the transaction. But whatever were 
his particular instructions, and whatever his private 
feelings, his public duty was paramount to these, and 
prompted him to state what, indeed, the jury would 



THE CULPFvlT. 67 

not fail to perceive, that these very circumstances 
of superior birth and education ought to have 
placed him above the commission of the act with 
which he was charged, and of which, from the 
evidence about to be adduced, no doubt could exist 
that he was guilty. He then stated the particulars 
of the robbery, which were of a common-place, 
indeed, almost of a ludicrous description. It ap- 
peared that the prisoner met an errand-boy, with 
whom he was acquainted, and who had been des- 
patched by his employer, a tradesman, to different 
places in the country for the purpose of paying 
various sums of money to persons to whom he was 
indebted. The prisoner having learned from the 
lad the nature of his errand, and ascertained the 
amount w T hich he had with him, persuaded him to 
quit the main road, and repair to a rookery close by, 
for the purpose of bird-nesting ; and when arrived 
there he first climbed partly up a tree himself, and 
then quickly descending, pretended that he had 
injured his arm in consequence of his coat being 
too tight for him ; and, with this shallow excuse, 
prevailed on the simple lad to take off his own 
jacket, place it in his, the prisoner's hands, with all 
the money it contained enclosed in a pocket-book, 
and mount the tree: and then it w T as stated the 
prisoner, when he saw the boy fairly perched on 
high, disappeared among the trees, and absconded 
with the garment and the money. The hue and 



68 



THE CULPRIT, 



cry was immediately raised; the prisoner was 
sought for, and after the interval of a week was 
discovered in a low beer-shop in a distant part of 
the county, regaling with a party of infamous com- 
panions. The counsel then called various wit- 
nesses in support of these statements. 

After being examined by himself they were 
cross-examined by the counsel for the defence, 
with more or less length and acuteness, as depended 
on the extent and importance of the testimony 
they had adduced. These cross-examinations, how- 
ever, as is so often the case with cross-examina- 
tions for the defence, were all intended to make 
the worse appear the better reason, to make the 
honest men rogues, and the rogue an honest man. 
But it was only washing the blackamoor white ; 
and the farther the case was investigated, the more 
apparent became the prisoner's guilt. The party 
longest subjected to this, not very pleasant ordeal, 
was the silly boy who had allowed himself to be 
made the prisoner's dupe. His journey; his 
meeting with the prisoner; what they said and 
what they did ; and how T they walked and how they 
talked; together with the whole history and mystery 
of bird-nesting, was told and retold in a manner 
considerably more tedious than entertaining. Yet, 
though the boy was kept on the rack for a full half 
hour, it was impossible to shake his testimony or 
invalidate his evidence ; and the lad quitted the 



THE CULPRIT. 69 

box, leaving every one impressed with the silliness 
of his conduct and the truth of his tale. This was 
the case for the prosecution ; and the counsel for 
the defence now rose to address the court. An 
" untoward event" disturbed and impeded the very 
outset of his harangue. A worthy grocer of the 
town, who had been promoted to the office of one 
of the sheriff's javelin-men, never having perhaps 
been entrusted with so hostile a weapon before, 
managed to let it fall among the spectators, where 
it struck a woman and a child in her arms ; parties 
who are usually to be found in the front row of 
lookers-on, for no other reason, perhaps, than 
because women and children have no business 
there. No one, fortunately, was hurt by the 
accident ; but the confusion which ensued, and the 
squalling of the terrified infant, interrupted for 
some minutes the proceedings of the court, and 
delayed the eloquence of defendant's counsel. 

" All the better, my dear Sir," said Mr. Grub, to 
whom I had expressed some impatience at the occur- 
rence ; " all the better ; — gives him time to collect 
himself. Now for it," — said the little man of 
the law, as the hubbub ceased and the counsel 
commenced. 

His speech was indeed an admirable specimen of 
sophistical argument. Fully aware himself of the 
guilt of the prisoner, and knowing that it was too 



70 THE CULPRIT. 

evident to all present to be openly denied, he art- 
fully endeavoured to impugn the testimony of the 
witnesses, to create a suspicion of their statements, 
and thus to establish that degree of doubt which 
the law has humanely provided shall be awarded 
in favour of the prisoner. His object, in short, 
was, since he felt that the jury must possess a 
moral certainty of the guilt of the prisoner, to 
show that that legal certainty had not been esta- 
blished, by which alone they could be justified in con- 
victing the accused. He commenced by descanting 
on the gravity and importance of the charge, remark- 
ing that prior to the recent amelioration of our 
penal code, such a crime would have been punish- 
able with death. " If then, gentlemen of the jury," 
he emphatically added, " you are not prepared to 
take the prisoner's life on the evidence, I call on 
you to acquit him ! " Adverting to the suspicions 
arising from the conduct of the prisoner, he, with 
the semblance of much candour, admitted that his 
conduct was suspicious ; " I surrender the case to 
you, gentlemen," he said, " as one of suspicion ; 
but, gentlemen, I need not tell you, for my lord 
will tell you, and your own consciences will tell you, 
that suspicion alone is not a sufficient reason to 
deprive a fellow-creature of his life or liberty. Nay, 
I will even go farther, and say, that under these 
circumstances of suspicion, it may be difficult, nay, 



THE CULPRIT. 71 

impossible, for me to demonstrate the actual inno- 
cence of the accused: but Heaven forbid, gentlemen, 
that the guilt or the innocence of a prisoner should 
depend on no stronger basis than the skill of an ad- 
vocate to prove him not guilty. ' ? Adverting next 
to the evidence, he first ridiculed the prosecutor 
(who was a shy man, with an impediment in his 
speech, and gave his evidence with much timidity) 
for having sent a witless boy on so important an 
errand. Then they had a story about bird-nesting, 
and climbing up a tree, and giving his jacket to a 
man to hold. He did not wish to throw discredit on 
the boy ; Heaven forbid that he should, or that the 
jury should ; but was it not far more likely that the 
boy, who, by his own account, was most unworthy 
of his charge, should have himself lost his money 
or his coat, or both, and then have trumped up 
this bird-nesting story; was not such a supposition, 
he asked, far more natural than that the pri- 
soner, who could not have meditated such a crime 
beforehand; who met the boy only by accident, 
and knew not of his errand half an hour before ; 
and whom, he should prove by a highly respectable 
witness now in court, to have hitherto borne an 
excellent character ; was it not far more probable, 
he urged, that the boy should have invented the 
tale, than that the prisoner should all at once have 
become wicked, and have perpetrated the crime of 



72 THE CULPRIT. 

which he was now unhappily accused ? He then 
availed himself of every, the minutest circumstance 
that could in any way be rendered available to his 
client's case, and left no effort untried that might 
by possibility assist it. In particular, he seized on 
a trivial act of omission on the part of the prose- 
cution, and endeavoured, with the utmost skill and 
vehemence, to turn it to the advantage of this 
unhappy man for whom he was pleading. By 
one of the enactments of the recent Prisoners' 
Counsel Bill, it is directed that the prisoner 
shall be furnished with copies of all the depo- 
sitions against him, a regulation which in the 
present case had been partially neglected. It 
appeared that subsequently to his examination 
before the magistrates and committal for trial, a 
child had come forward, who stated that she had 
seen the prisoner and the prosecutor's servant on 
their way to the rookery, where the robbery was 
alleged to have been committed. The girl's 
evidence was very unimportant. The child was 
frightened out of her wits ; the little she said 
was scarcely audible in the jury-box ; and the 
guilt of the prisoner was far too palpable to 
need the slight confirmation which her testimony 
supplied. By some inadvertence, however, the 
attorneys for the prosecution had omitted to fur- 
nish the prisoner with a copy of her deposition, 



THE CULPRIT. 73 

and his counsel took occasion to inveigh against 
the neglect in a tone of the most exalted and 
virtuous indignation. His learned friend on the 
other side he acquitted of all blame in this 
respect, — his friend was far too honourable a 
man to have so acted ; but those who had in- 
structed his learned friend, and on whom the 
odium of the transaction must rest, their conduct 
indeed he could not sufficiently stigmatize. During 
this part of his address he smiled most benignantly 
on his brother advocate, while he looked Indian 
tortures at two little attorneys, who sat ensconced 
in an opposite corner. By this part of his speech 
he contrived to elicit the special admiration of 
my neighbour, Mr. Grub, who, independently of 
any little professional gratification which he 
might be supposed to feel at the castigation of 
a brother-solicitor, was evidently struck with the 
magnanimity of the learned counsel in this par- 
ticular instance: — -"Capital fellow, isn't he; — 
how he gives it 'em, — serves 'em right, — shouldn't 
be so careless, — fine fellow, — got three briefs of 
their's in his bag now, — clerk told me so this 
morning." Our counsel was proceeding in a strain 
of similar energy, when a little official came and 
whispered a summons in his ear, which mentioned 
something about " the other, court," and had 
evidently the effect of cutting short his harangue. 

E 



74 THE CULPRIT. 

He now hurried to a conclusion, — and scrambling 
up his papers and his sympathies, he stuffed the 
one into his bag, and the other into the close of 
his speech, and entreating the jury to immortalize 
themselves by pronouncing a verdict of acquittal 
for the prisoner at the bar, he brought his address 
to an end, and hastened to depart, nodding 
graciously to the opposing counsel, and shaking 
hands with the little lawyers whom he had 
the moment before so unmercifully abused. He 
was just in time, for at that instant, an officer, 
" learned in the law," presented himself in the 
passage leading between the two courts, calling out 

" Muster — wanted, Nisey Prisey. Fickle 

and Fast — Breach — promise — marriage!" and in 
obedience to the summons, away he went to 
advocate or oppose some capricious swain in 
the other court, leaving the prisoner in this 
to be acquitted or found guilty, as the fates, 
the judge, and the jury might determine. I was 
then summoned to the witness-box by a junior, 
who undertook the task of my examination ; and, 
as I ascended the step, I could not forbear taking 
a glance at the prisoner, who stood, as at first, 
stupified, unaffected, unmoved. Still nearer to 
him than before was the sweet sympathizer in his 
sorrows, the gentle girl who had stood the whole 
dreadful day by his side. As she cast on me an 



THE CULPRIT. 75 

imploring look, and seemed to regard me as the 
only hope, — the single solitary friend, who inter- 
posed between the prisoner and the whole host 
of his accusers and opponents, I caught a full view 
of her face, and beheld in the slender form, and 
beautiful, though melancholy features, the face 
and form of Mary, the companion of the prisoner 
and of myself in childhood — the protegee of his 
sainted mother. I had no time for further reflec- 
tion, but answered, mechanically, the interrogatory 
to which I was subjected. My testimony was, 
of course, extremely unimportant, — mere dust 
in the balance, compared with the overpowering 
evidence of the prisoner's guilt. All I could testify 
was, that I had known him in early life, that 
he was the son of a clergyman, and had been 
educated with extreme care by a widowed mother. 
I was spared the annoyance of a cross-examination, 
and desired to stand down. The closing act of 
the drama now ensued, — the judge proceeded to 
sum up and to represent the case, stripped of the 
colouring, with which the zeal or partisanship of 
the advocate had previously invested it. After 
recapitulating the evidence, he remarked that too 
much stress had been placed by the counsel for 
the defence on the omission of supplying the pri- 
soner with copies of the deposition of the child, 
They ought to have been furnished certainly, 

e 2 



76 THE CULPRIT. 

and in future lie hoped they invariably would ; 
but the omission was not important, — the prisoner 
had been asked if he wished to question or con- 
tradict the witness, and had declined to do so. 
He had called no evidence to invalidate that for 
the prosecution; the only testimony adduced on 
his behalf was to character, and the person whose 
evidence they had just heard had known him only 
in childhood, and had apparently lost sight of him 
for some time prior to the act of which he now 
stood accused. If the jury believed the witnesses 
for the prosecution, and he was bound to state 
that their evidence appeared to him unshaken, 
they would find the prisoner guilty ; if, on the 
contrary, they entertained a doubt, they would 
give the prisoner the benefit of that doubt, and 
return a verdict of acquittal. And with this re- 
mark he left the case in their hands, and requested 
them to " consider their verdict." 

And now followed that dread interval of doubt, 
anxiety, and suspense, when the twelve arbiters 
of life or death, of liberty or exile, were to deter- 
mine the fate of a miserable fellow-creature. I 
looked on the prisoner, — -he stood as before, un- 
moving and unmoved, — not a feature changed its 
aspect, — his eye had its former expression of 
indifference, — he was the same portrait of har- 
dened, stupid villany, as when he first entered the 



THE CULPRIT. 77 

box. I looked on Mary; how different was the 
expression of her face — how exalted — how all but 
angelic ! The judge, the jury, the bar, the court, 
which before had engaged her attention, and whom 
she had alternately watched with intense and 
painful interest, had now vanished from her 
thoughts ; her eyes were raised to the roof of the 
hall — her lips moved fervently and quickly ; her 
occupation was evident, she was engaged in silent 
prayer, supplicating the God of mercy for mercy 
on his offending creature ! The suspense was but 
short ; the jury decided without quitting the box ; 
and in answer to the customary interrogatory 
from the clerk of the arraigns, pronounced the 
dread verdict of — Guilty ! The usual question was 
asked the prisoner if he had any thing to state 
why judgment should not be passed on him ac- 
cording to law, when he handed up a paper, which 
the judge having read, stated to be an acknow- 
ledgment of his guilt, and urging poverty and 
destitution as his inducements for having com- 
mitted the offence. His lordship remarked, that 
these circumstances formed no extenuation of his 
crime, and that it now became his duty to pro- 
nounce the sentence of the law — that the pri- 
soner be transported for the term of his natural 
life ! Scarce was the dread decision pronounced, 
when the loud, long cry of female anguish rang 



78 THE CULPRIT. 

through the body of the hall. O never, while 
memory endures, shall I lose the recollection of 
that wild, bitter, heart-piercing shriek ! It seemed 
no impulse of the instant — no expression of sud- 
den, momentary feeling — no burst of temporary 
excitement; it was the out-break of long-felt 
pent-up suffering; the gush of restrained, agonized 
feeling ; the cry of long-endured and heart-rending 
despair. Its effect was electric : the counsel 
looked up in amazement, — the reporters started 
from their note-books,— the female spectators wept 
audibly ; even the judge was moved, and as he 
attempted to record the sentence, his hand trembled 
visibly, as if unwilling to do its office. But its 
most striking effect was produced on the prisoner 
himself. Hitherto he had evinced no trace of 
feeling, and from first to last the dread inquiry 
had produced no change on his mind or features. 
But that wild outcry subdued even a heart callous 
as his own ; he turned to Mary, for she it was 
whose sympathies had been thus expressed, at- 
tempted to clasp her in his arms, but prevented 
by the partition which inclosed the dock, he 
sank on the rail before him. Convulsive throes 
shook his iron frame ; and when, after a pause, 
the jailor gently interposed to remove him, while 
Mary was borne away senseless by her friends, 
his moans were audible, and he wept like an 



THE CULPRIT. 79 

infant! After the brief interruption thus occa- 
sioned, the business of the court was resumed, 
a fresh culprit was placed at the bar, and the 
same scene of examining and cross-examining, of 
defending and proving, and all the wordy war of 
a court of justice was renewed. 

I felt desirous to see the prisoner before I left 
the town, and on quitting the court, repaired at 
once to the jail, but was informed that I could not 
gain entrance on that day, but on the following 
morning might be admitted to an interview. I went 
thither at a very early hour, being anxious to return 
home as quickly as possible. Early, however, as I 
was, I was anticipated ; a visitor had arrived before 
me, and I saw the slender form of Mary waiting 
at the massive portal. The morning was intensely 
cold, the wind blew with piercing keenness, and 
the poor girl shivered fearfully with the exposure. 

How bitter are the sufferings of the poor, if 
contrasted for a moment with the sorrows of the 
rich. The lady of fashion or fortune, if assailed 
with those calamities from which none of the 
children of humanity are exempt, is surrounded 
with a thousand mitigations which soothe, if they 
cannot remove her grief. Her mansion affords 
every relief that comfort or luxury can bestow ; 
her servants wait her wishes, or anticipate their 
expression ; her embroidered kerchief receives her 



80 THE CULPRIT. 

tears ; her eau de bouquet revives her yielding 
spirits ; and if, in spite of these, and other aux- 
iliaries, nature should faint in the conflict, she is 
gently and tenderly supported to her sofa, or pil- 
lowed on her couch of down ; her friends and con- 
nexions leave their cards of condolence, their marks 
of attention, at her door, and her sorrows and her 
sympathies are affiche to the public, and trumpeted 
to an admiring world ! 

Not so with the poor : their sufferings are em- 
bittered by that poverty and privation which barb 
the dart of anguish, and fester the wounds of 
sorrow; the want of the common comforts, and 
even necessaries of life increases the bitterness of 
their solitary wretchedness ; their sympathies are 
unshared, their sorrows too often unheeded and 
unknown ! 

I had just pronounced the name of Mary, and 
was about to enter into conversation with her, when 
the gate creaked heavily on its hinges, and a few 
steps brought us within the prison. On inquiring 
for the unhappy Thompson we were conducted to 
a room, and requested to wait until he could be 
brought from his cell. During the brief interval 
which ensued, Mary, who at once recognised me, 
with tears of gratitude, expressed her acknowledg- 
ments for my appearance on the prisoner's behalf 
the day before, and her regret that my interposition 



THE CULPRIT. 81 

had been unavailing. The prisoner, accompanied 
by the turnkey, now entered the room, and sorry 
I was to perceive that the transient impression of 
yesterday seemed already obliterated, and that he 
looked as hardened, as obdurate, as before. 

I addressed him with the expression of my con- 
cern at the fatal issue of yesterday's proceedings, 
and the desire that he would point out any mode 
in which I could afford him assistance. Mary 
uttered the same sentiments, but with a generosity 
and feeling so elevated and affecting ; a delicacy 
towards the culprit so far beyond her years and 
station ; and a spirit so meek, and chastened, and 
resigned, that I was fain to remain a silent witness, 
unwilling to interrupt their conference. 

" I am sorry, truly sorry, William," she observed, 
" that all was of no use." 

" So am I," said the prisoner ; " and then there's 
the expense. You'd better have given the money 
to me, Mary." 

"Sordid being," I mentally exclaimed ; "selfish, 
unfeeling, to the last." 

" True, William, and it comes very expensive ; 
I paid the gentleman a deal of money, which I had 
worked hard for many a day, for they charge high ; 
they're not like poor folks, w 7 ho do a great deal and 
get little for it." 

Generous girl; and it was her hard earnings 
then, which had gone to provide attorney and 

e3 



82 THE CULPRIT. 

counsel, and the promptitude and liberality of her 
conduct it was which had extorted the eulogium 
of the worthy Mr. Grub. 

" But there — it's no use fretting now it's done/- 
she added ; " I did it for the best, and it's turned out 
for the worst ; 'twas master and mistress advised me ; 
they've both been very kind ; mistress has given me 
leave to come, and hired a young woman, out of 
her own pocket, to do my work while I was gone ; 
and master gave me a letter to his own lawyer, and 
desired me to get a counsel, for he would get you 
off, they thought, if any one could ; but it was of 
no use, the other counsel was against you ; and the 
witnesses were against you; and the judge and the 
jury were against you, and I am afraid, William, 
your own heart"— but the delicacy of her feelings 
restrained her utterance, and she left the sentence 
unfinished, adding, after a pause, " however, I did 
all I could, and I hope, William, you think so." 

" All right for that, Mary," said he, evidently 
softened ; " you've been a good girl to me, though 
I was a villain to you, and would have been your 
ruin if I could." 

(< O do not name it, William; I forgive you, and 
have done so long since, and am only glad you are 
not here on my account. But it's no use talking 
of the past ; we must now look to the future. I 
am told it is not such a very bad place where you'll 
go — you have to work, of course; but you get 



THE CULPRIT. 83 

plenty of food and clothing, and many honest, poor 
people get but that here ; and then they say if you 
behave well you obtain your liberty at last. Isn't 
it so, Sir?" she inquired, with much anxiety, de- 
sirous that I should, if possible, confirm the con- 
solation she would convey. 

I assured her that her statement was correct, and 
that there, as here, good conduct brought its own 
reward. 

But the prisoner was not to be thus consoled. 
" Pshaw," he exclaimed ; " they tell you all this, 
but it's no such thing. Transportation isn't what 
it used to be ; there's been a reform there too, like 
every thing else, and it's spoiled now." 

" Well," said Mary, " there's good people and 
kind hearts all over the world, if one only deserves 
their pity, and let us hope you will meet with them. 
I must now do all I can for you, and it's little I 
can ; but I'll do it, William, cheerfully, happily, 
and I hope, trifling as it is, it may be of service. I 
was talking yesterday with the jailor — that is the 
gentleman up stairs— and he is very kind. He 
says I may send you any thing in the way of linen 
or clothes, and the carrier will bring parcels to and 
fro, and not charge me for them, and he brought 
me here and gave me a bed at his house, and 
charged me nothing, only I'm to pay him when I 
can ; and so now the spring-mornings are coming 
on, I'll get up early, and make you some shirts and 



84 THE CULPRIT. 

some warm flannel waistcoats, and mark some 
stockings with your name, and send them every 
week as I get them out of hand ; and tell me, is 
there any thing else, "William, that would make 
you comfortable, and if it's in my power to get it, 
you shall have it without fail ? " 

" Thank you," said the culprit, doggedly, " thank 
you, Mary." 

" And now," she said, producing a small box, 
" here's a little money, William. It isn't much, for 
wages are low, and though I'm very careful, I 
hadn't saved much, and the lawyer's bill took it 
nearly all. You will do what you like with it, of 
course, but if / was to advise I would save it till 
you get abroad, and it may be of use and benefit 
to you there." 

There was something repulsive in the eagerness 
with which the fellow seized and opened it, as if to 
count its contents ; I however did not wish to 
hinder the good work, and therefore added my mite 
to the benefaction of the noble-minded girl. 

" Thank you, Sir," she said ; " and William thanks 
you too, for you have been very kind already. But 
there is one thing more I must say to you, William, 
and you must hear it; I would not for worlds 
reproach your conduct, nor reflect on what has past, 
but I must speak of it to guide you for the future. 
O William, if you had only thought as I have 
thought, you might have been happy ;" and she 



THE CULPRIT, 85 

gazed intently on his countenance, anxious to 
mark the effect of her admonitions. 

How much is often comprised in a few apparently 
trivial and unimportant words. If, indeed, he had 
" thought as she had," if the same sentiments of 
piety, of integrity, and virtue, had guided his con- 
duct which had directed her's, how different might 
have been his present condition. And a circum- 
stance which heightened the interest that her 
conduct would otherwise have inspired, was, that 
her whole deportment, kind, and sympathizing as it 
was, evinced the absence of every tiling like personal 
attachment to the unhappy object of her pity. 
Had he been her lover, her efforts could not have 
been more ardent, more energetic, yet they would 
scarcely have been so hallowed, so exalted, as they 
now appeared. Her feelings, however anxious, were 
those only inspired by pity and commiseration ; no 
stronger sympathy existed, or could exist, between 
them. There is no separation wider than that 
which divides a young and pure-minded girl from 
an immoral person of the other sex, and the gulf 
between these two was too wide, too deep, to allow 
of being passed. No — she saw in the object of her 
sympathy only the child of her benefactress, of her 
early, only friend, and with all the fond devotion 
of woman, gladly sacrificed her little store of money, 
her time, and her exertions, to repay the debt of 
gratitude long since incurred. 



86 THE CULPRIT. 

She continued, " O, dear William, it is never too 
late to repent and be happy. Let me implore you 
to think of your immortal welfare, and of another 
world than this. And that you may do so, I have 
got another present for you, and you will not refuse 
it, for it's far more precious and valuable than the 
few and trifling things I can give you beside ; here 
it is ;" and she produced a Bible from beneath her 
cloak, and observing that he turned doggedly away, 
muttering that he had one, and that they were 
bored with them there, she added, " Nay, say not 
so ; take it for my sake, take it ; and for the sake 
of your poor mother, who is in heaven ! It was her 
present to me ; she gave it me when I went to ser- 
vice, and her name is written on the blank leaf. O 
William, may it only be the same comfort to you 
which it has been to me, and a blessing will yet 
attend you ! Read it, study it, pray over it, and 
it may reconcile you to your lot, may console you 
in life, may cheer you in death, and though you 
and I shall never— no, never — see each other again 
on earth, we yet may meet in another and a better 
world!" 

She pressed the sacred volume on his unwilling 
acceptance, imprinted a pure and holy kiss of pity 
and of love on his obdurate cheek, sighed her last 
kind wish, wept her last farewell, and we quitted 
the prison together ! 



THE JUDGMENT OF WINES, 



• : e German of I 



There was once an old monarch, so fond of his tipple. 

That he daily got drunk, did this winebibbing elf ; 
So instead of being able to govern his people, 
■ He scarcely had sense left— to govern himself ! 

He sat once with all his magnates at table. 
And drank off his wine with an infinite zest ; 

And bantered and joked, and told story and fable, 
With a jolly old abbot, his favourite guest ! 

" Sir Abbot, you've emptied full many a canikin, 

And with wines are acquainted far more than the rest ; 

So tell me now truly, my round little manikin. 
Which wine of them all you consider the best." 

" So grave, mighty sire," said the priest, "is the question, 
And my memory so short that, with your gracious leave ; 
I must beg that you'll take not amiss the suggestion, 
Of just one trial more ere my judgment I give." 

Nay, nay, you are really, Sir Abbot, too modest," 
The monarch replied in his good-natured sport ; 

" Your excuse, too, of all I e'er heard, is the oddest: 
What ! the question too grave, and your memory too 
short ? 



88 THE JUDGMENT OF WINES. 

" Well, well, be it so, without farther orations, 

We'll call our chief butler, who forthwith shall go 

And bring us up wines from the different nations, 
Who are subject to him in our cellars below ! 

" And just to fill up a few moments of leisure, 

We'll hold our high court at this hour in this place ; 

And know, my good lords, 'tis our right royal pleasure, 
That you shall assist us in judging the case. 

" The wine that we all find the best, for example, 
I'll proclaim it as king by a sovereign decree ; 

But find we a bad or indifferent sample, 

By the very same edict it banish'd shall be." 

" Sir Monarch, we'll gladly obey your dictations, " 
The abbot replied, "and forthwith let's begin;" 

For, charged with the wines of ten different nations, 
The monarch's chief butler that moment came in ! 

As umpires and judges their work now commences, 
They poured out the wine, and they sent round the cup ; 

They sipped not in drops mere, poor, shallow pretences, 
But drained their full goblets right manfully up ! 

They tried and they tasted so cautious and clever, 
And quaffed off their wine with a great deal of zest; 

But praise them or blame as they might, yet they never 
Could fully determine which wine was the best. 

And soon to their glowing and joy-lighted faces, 
The walls and the windows danced merrily round ; 

And beakers and goblets fell out of their places, 

In the hands of their judges, and flowed o'er the ground! 



THE JUDGMENT OF WINES. 89 

And very soon after these royal assessors, 
Though heroes in wine as in iron and steel, 

Lost all the high seats where they late were possessors, 
And fell to the floor with a tumble and reel ! 

Though the judge with the cowl, and the judge with the 
sceptre, 

Clung fast from a feeling of honour and strength ; 
Not very long after their colleagues they kept there, 

But were borne off to bed by their servants at length* 

And thus since no edict was sent to the people, 

And no wine was proclaimed to be king o'er the rest ; 

Why let each man now crown his own favourite tipple, 
And pay his allegiance to that he likes best ! 



A SKETCH OF THE GERMAN LANGUAGE 
AND LITERATURE, 



THE SUBSTANCE OF AN ESSAY READ AT THE CONVERSAZIONE 
OF THE SUSSEX ROYAL INSTITUTION. 



Without entering on long, and possibly tedious 
discussions, as to the source of that great parent 
language, the high German tongue, it may be 
sufficient to observe, that it is indisputably of 
Gothic origin, and that as the Goths, as well as all 
the tribes who peopled the north of Europe, are of 
Asiatic descent, the source of the language is thus 
to be traced to India, the great fountain-head of 
knowledge and civilization ; a fact which, if it 
needed confirmation, would be amply proved by 
the striking similarity that is found to exist be- 
tween many German words and corresponding 
terms in the languages of India, especially those 
of Persia and Hindoostan. At the fall of the 
Roman empire, the southern nations, Italy, France, 
Portugal, and Spain, it is well known, retained the 
Latin language, though in variously altered forms, 



THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 91 

and these were termed the Roman or Romaunce 
tongues, whilst the northern communities adhered 
to their original languages ; and thus the Gothic 
tongue, under various modifications, became esta- 
blished in Germany, Sweden, Denmark, Holland, 
Flanders, and in this country. And since the lan- 
guage of a nation is the natural result of its poli- 
tical changes and conditions, we thus find that while 
the Roman language was perpetuated among the 
softer nations of the south ; the hardier people of 
the north, where the Roman power had never esta- 
blished its supremacy, not only retained their ori- 
ginal Gothic forms of speech among themselves, but 
diffused them widely and permanently throughout 
their colonies and conquests. The German tongue, 
after undergoing various changes of form, and al- 
ternating amid Prankish, Swabian, and Saxon dia- 
lects, the discussion of which, I fear, would rather 
weary than interest, assumed nearly its present 
form about the time of Luther, whose translation 
of the Bible tended to settle its style and character, 
and is regarded, even at the present day, as an 
authority and model of the High German language. 
The genius and talents of the writers of Germany, 
the power and influence of its master-minds, and 
the invaluable benefits which their labours and 
discoveries have conferred on mankind, have 
rendered its language familiar to a great part of the 



92 A SKETCH OF THE 

European public ; a result which has been much in- 
creased during the last twenty years of peace, and 
the consequent intercourse of nations and indi- 
viduals, whom the unnatural and dissociating pre- 
valence of war had previously severed, and rendered 
strangers and foes. In this country, from the 
affinity of our moral and religious feelings ; from 
the congeniality of our literary tastes ; from the 
admiration ever felt and expressed by the Germans 
for those great writers and distinguished men, of 
whom England is so justly proud, from the days 
and the works of Shakspeare and Milton, to those 
of Byron and Scott, a considerable literary in- 
timacy has existed between the two nations, and 
the German language has, especially of late years, 
been much cultivated and read among us. Still, 
it is to be regretted that this splendid tongue has 
by no means been studied or attained to a degree 
commensurate with the advantages which a know- 
ledge of it is calculated to convey. It is not 
my purpose here to enter into a description of 
the various departments of knowledge in which 
the German literati and men of science have 
chiefly excelled ; this will follow shortly, when I 
shall have occasion to descant on German litera- 
ture ; but when I recall to you that to the German 
nation we owe many of our most important and 
beneficial inventions, for instance that of printing, 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 93 

which has been the mightiest engine of moral good 
yet conferred on mankind — that of gunpowder, 
which has softened the horrors of war, and esta- 
blished a protection for civilized man against the 
irruption of savages and barbarians, an advantage 
which Gibbon has beautifully illustrated at the 
close of his invaluable history — or when I remind 
the members of this institution that the Germans 
were among the first who directed their attention 
to geology, and that its very nomenclature and its 
chief elementary terms, as quartz, gneiss, felspar, 
schist, blend, &c, are German words, I feel that I 
have done enough to show that those inquirers 
after learning who omit to possess themselves of 
the key to so much knowledge, of so valuable a 
kind, are likely to be considerable losers by their 
own neglect. 

In the course of some experience which I have 
acquired as a teacher of German, I have found two 
prejudices to exist, which operate with many per- 
sons against the acquiring this beautiful and ad- 
mirable language : the first, that it is difficult ; the 
second, that it is unmusical and harsh. With due 
deference I beg to assert that it is neither. As to 
its difficulty, it is to be observed, that to acquire 
the niceties and refinements of any language, so as 
to write it with elegance and correctness, and 
speak it with fluency and ease, is certainly a task 



94 A SKETCH OF THE 

which requires some time to achieve, but which, 
in the instance of the German language, may, 
with the necessary application, be satisfactorily at- 
tained. But to acquire a correct and elegant pro- 
nunciation ; a general knowledge of its formation 
and structure ; and the ability to translate its most 
valuable authors ; is an object which may be effected 
in a few weeks* and with only a few lessons ; the 
fact being, that while the details of the language 
are, some of them, complex and varied, its general 
structure is extremely simple and plain, requiring 
far less application for its acquirement than the 
languages of the south, the French, Italian, or 
Spanish. The truth is, we are all forcibly struck 
with first impressions, and persons who on opening 
German books have seen a different type from that 
to w T hich they are accustomed, have closed the 
volume, supposing that these hieroglyphics con- 
tained some deep and wondrous mystery, and that 
the language must be intricate and difficult, because 
its characters differed from our own. 

Nor will the charge that German is harsh and 
unmusical be found to rest on better foundation. 
The chief, nay, it may be said the only reasons, 
which are offered in support of this statement, 
are urged only by persons who are unacquainted 
with the language, those who understand it consi- 
dering it, on the contrary, a very musical tongue. 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 95 

The sounds of the vowels are precisely those of the 
Italian, and are softer than the French as regards 
the ti, and our own as concerns the a, i, u. The 
vowels, it is true, are of less frequent occurrence 
than in Italian, yet their absence is compensated, 
to borrow the remark of a German philologist, by 
a pleasing rhythmus of consonants. But it is fre- 
quently objected that guttural sounds are employed, 
and that these are of necessity harsh and displeas- 
ing. Yet it is obvious that the most complete and 
most beautiful languages, both of ancient and mo- 
dern times, for instance the Greek and the Spanish, 
present similar sounds. There is indisputable 
evidence that the chi of the Greeks was a guttural, 
as are the x and^', of the Spaniards at the present day. 
These sounds, however, in German are so softened 
and ameliorated, that in reality they are produced 
by the palate rather than the throat, and far from 
being unmusical, they are, in fact, not less, but 
more harmonious than the sounds of the same 
letters in other tongues. Take for instance the 
syllable t — ch, add the sounds in each instance, try 
first the English tack, &c, then the German, and 
say which is the softer and more musical of the 
two. Indeed, so much more pleasing is the 
German sound, that nothing is more grating to the 
German ear than when, as constantly occurs with 
learners, the pupil substitutes the harsh English 



96 A SKETCH OF THE 

sound of ch, for the softer German pronunciation. 
The difficulty, in short, I repeat is one only en- 
tertained by those who are unacquainted with the 
language ; those who understand it invariably find 
it a very pleasing and musical tongue. 

Having discussed the chief objections which are 
urged against this interesting language, let us hasten 
to the more agreeable task of pointing out its 
advantages and beauties. These are of no common 
order, and chiefly arise from the circumstance that, 
instead of its being a mere dialect, like several of 
the languages of the south, or a mixture of other 
languages, like our own and some other tongues, it 
is essentially an original language, a mother-tongue, 
the fruitful parent of the Swedish, Danish, Dutch, 
Flemish, and English languages, which are all, either 
wholly or in a great measure, formed from the 
German. In addition to these original advantages, 
it possesses "as compared with other languages ex- 
traordinary power, versatility, and extent. It will 
be best characterised by being styled the Greek of 
modern times, since it embodies many of the chief 
properties of that incomparable language. Like 
the Greek, it has the power of forming compound 
words to an almost indefinite extent ; and like the 
Greek, has the faculty of separating these words, 
and of referring their component parts to their 
appropriate portions of the sentence. Like that 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 97 

splendid tongue also, and its immediate dialect the 
Latin, it possesses a peculiar ordo or construc- 
tion of sentences, by which the verb is referred to 
the end of the sentence,— an arrangement which 
adds much to the dignity of serious composition, 
and proves exceedingly attractive and interesting 
to the classical student, who is delighted to find, 
in a Gothic language, a peculiar characteristic of 
the Greek and Roman tongues. From this affinity 
with the classical languages results also the ad- 
vantage of a far greater capability for translating, 
than is possessed by languages not similarly con- 
stituted ; hence the German translations of Homer, 
Pindar, and Horace, exhibit the excellences of 
their originals in a far higher degree, than is pre- 
sented by versions of the same authors in other 
languages. The superiority of a mother-tongue 
is also strikingly exhibited over those which 
are little more than dialects of the Latin, as 
the Italian and the French ; as well as those 
of a mixed character, like the Spanish, which 
exhibits a medley of Latin, Gothic, and Arabic ; 
or our own, which presents a similar combination 
of German, Latin, and French. From this origi- 
nality of words and expressions arises also a cor- 
responding newness of ideas, and it was the remark 
of a talented friend, whom I some time since 
had the honour of instructing, that the German 

F 



98 A SKETCH OF THE 

language presented a new world _of ideas as well 
as of words, and induced new tones of thought 
and feeling as well as of mere sounds. This 
interesting division of the subject might be ad- 
vantageously discussed at greater length, but 
we will now pass to the other department of the 
subject, hoping, however, that enough has been 
stated to excite an interest in German studies, if 
for the sake of their philological attractions alone. 

It is with infinite gratification that we ascend 
to the higher and more important branch of the 
theme, and rise from the contemplation of the 
language, to that of the literaryproductions of this 
interesting people. To enter on a complete sur- 
vey of German literature ; to describe its various 
and fluctuating epochs ; and to illustrate the dif- 
ferent authors who appear on the page of its 
history, would far exceed the present limits. We 
must therefore content ourselves with a summary 
review, and a brief enumeration, of a few only of 
its chief authors, its most distinguished poets, and 
most celebrated men. 

The history of German literature is usually 
divided by native writers into six distinct periods, 
or epochs. The first, which extends from the 
earliest time to the middle of the eleventh century, 
is termed by them the Preparation (Die Vorii- 
bungen,) of the poetic spirit of the Germans. The 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 99 

second^ reaching from the twelfth to the first half 
of the fourteenth century, is that of the celebrated 
Swabian sera, the golden age of the poetry of 
romance. The third, which comprises the long 
interval between the fourteenth and the first half 
of the seventeenth century, constitutes an epoch 
w r hen poetry, no longer cultivated by the nobility 
and higher classes, degenerated in the hands of the 
mastersingers during the fourteenth, fifteenth, 
and sixteenth centuries. The fourth includes 
the- space between the middle of the seven- 
teenth and the first quarter of the eighteenth 
centuries, corresponding with the age of Louis 
XIV. in France. The fifth, a bright and memo- 
rable epoch, entitled that of the Regeneration of 
German Poetry, extends over about half a century, 
concluding towards the year 1770; and the sixth, 
is comprised between that period and the present 
time. It may be worth while to mention, as a 
striking proof how T little the history of German 
letters is defined or understood among us, that, 
on turning over the pages of a late number of the 
Edinburgh Review, we find the reviewer of the 
interesting work of Dr. Menzel on German lite- 
rature, committing the egregious blunder of con- 
founding the epoch of the Minnesingers with that of 
the Mastersingers, though these aeras are perfectly 
distinct as to time, and utterly different from each 
other in character and spirit. 

f2 



100 A SKETCH OF THE 

To resume : these epochs, it will be perceived, 
are of very unequal character and merit ; and 
while in some, the Swabian period, for instance, 
the genius and taste of the Germans appear to 
have risen above the contemporary standard of other 
nations, during other epochs, that for example cor- 
responding with the age of Louis XIV., they seem 
to have fallen below it. The whole of these seras 
are, however, interesting to the critic and the man 
of letters ; since, while the brighter periods attract 
us by their splendour, the duller serve to illustrate 
the brilliancy of more enlightened times. A 
modern writer has a remark, which is so judicious 
in itself, and so particularly applicable to this 
circumstance, that it is impossible to resist the 
pleasure of quoting the observation. It is to be 
found among the essays of a popular and philo- 
sophic writer, Mr. Horace Smith; who observes, 
while alluding to a similar subject, that " destruc- 
tion and reproduction are alike the law of the 
moral, as they are of the physical universe ; and 
that the failures and errors of one literary period, 
often constitute the elements, from which are 
derived the successes and triumphs of another." 
On this sound and enlightened principle it will be 
expedient that the student should attend to the 
darker, as well as the brighter pages of German 
literary history, since they are, in point of fact, 
strongly and indissolubly connected with each other. 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 101 

It will be advisable to pass briefly over the 
records of the very earliest periods, since the pro- 
ductions of such an sera are many of them so rude 
and unpolished, as to defy all the skill of the trans- 
lator to render them in such a form as will not 
prove displeasing to the ear and the taste. It may 
be sufficient for the present to mention that the 
most celebrated writers of the first division, that 
preceding the eleventh century, are a priest named 
Ottfried, who composed a Harmony of the Gospels 
in' the Frankish dialect ; and the unknown author 
of the celebrated Eulogy on St, Anno, Archbishop 
of Cologne ; which said eulogist has been shrewdly 
suspected to have been the worthy Archbishop him- 
self, That these productions, though composed 
in so rude and early an age, are, however, not 
wholly destitute of poetic merit, the following 
passages will suffice to show. The poem commences 
thus :— 

" We oft have heard our minstrels sing 
Of many an old and famous thing ; 
How heroes fought in battle-field, 
How castles strong were forced to yield ; 
How friends with sweet affection loved ; 
How kings reverse of fortune proved : 
Now is the time that we should lend, 
Our thoughts unto our latter end !" 



102 A SKETCH OF THE 

The following description of the fall of man, 
contrasted with the perfection of the other works 
of the Creator, is highly picturesque : — 

" When Lucifer had turned to ill, 
And Adam spurned his Maker's will, 
Th 5 Almighty's wrath inflamed the more, 
Since all his works went well before ! 
The sun and moon, by day and night, 
Bestowed in turns their grateful light, 
The stars their course of duty hold, 
And bring alternate heat and cold ; 
The fire obedient soar'd on high, 
And winds and thunders shook the sky, 
The clouds to fruitful showers gave birth, 
The waters poured their floods on earth, 
The smiling fields were decked with flowers, 
And foliage graced the woodland bowers ; 
The wild beasts roamed the woods among, 
And sweetly poured the birds their song, 
And every creature of his hand 
Obeyed their Maker's first command ; 
Two beings only of the earth, 
The last, the noblest in their birth, 
Turned them to folly and to shame, 
Whence trouble and affliction came !" 



The following description of a battle is, as 
far as it proceeds, equally graphic and pictu- 
resque :- — 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 103 

" Hark ! the weapons, how they ring, 
How the steeds together spring ! 
How th' inspiring trumpets blow ! 
How the streams of crimson flow ! 
How the air is heard to moan ! 
How the earth appears to groan ! 
How the warrior's cheek is dyed 
With the glow of martial pride ! 
When the first of all the world, 
Have the blade of vengeance hurled !" 

The second aera, that of the minnesingers, or 
singers of love, or, as it has been termed, the golden 
age of ancient German literature, next dawns upon 
us, and presents a variety of poems, epic, lyrical, 
and didactic; the number, extent, and merit of 
which, considering the age in which they were pro- 
duced, are truly astonishing, and far excel all the 
productions of the rest of Europe at the same 
period. Poetry was indeed the taste, the passion 
of the age, was encouraged and cultivated by the 
great and noble, and by their influence and exam- 
ple was diffused among the inferior classes. During 
this period flourished two hundred poets and 
writers of rank and celebrity, among whom are 
reckoned one emperor and two kings, together with 
other sovereign princes ; and dukes, counts, nobles, 
knights, and ecclesiastics of distinction. The most 
celebrated among these writers are the following : 
Heinrich von Veldeck, Hartmann von Aue, Wolfram 



104 A SKETCH OF THE 

von Eschenbach, Walther von der Vogelweide, 
Gottfried von Strassburg, Christian von Hamle, 
Ulrich von Lichtenstein, &c. &c. Their produc- 
tions, like those of the troubadours and minstrels 
of the south, are chiefly devoted either to sacred 
subjects, or the praise of the fair sex, and the lyre 
of the knight, like his good sword, was devoted to 
" God and the ladies ;" while the charms of nature 
were celebrated as well as those of the fair, and 
the beauties of spring were vaunted by the minstrel 
with those of his mistress. Few particulars of the 
lives of these chivalrous poets have survived to the 
present day, a circumstance which is regretted by 
a German critic, who justly infers that their lives, 
unlike those of modern closet -students, would 
have been full of chivalrous adventure and deeds 
of war and enterprise. As an instance of the ex- 
tent to which poetry was cultivated and cherished, 
it may be mentioned that games, similar to the 
floral games of Thoulouse and the south, w r ere 
instituted in Germany, and that a poetic contest 
was once held at Wartburg, which was attended 
by the most celebrated minstrels of the time, who 
maintained a regular contention for the prize of 
song. As a sample of the refinement, delicacy, 
and beauty of the productions of this aera, I would 
beg to cite, from a vast variety of others, the fol- 
lowing charming address, by Christian von Hamle : — 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 105 



TO THE MEADOW WHERE MY LADY GATHERED 
FLOWERS. 

" I would thou wast endowed with speech, 
And then, fair meadow, thou couldst tell, 

And to the fond inquirer teach 
How fair a fortune thee befel, 

When my sweet lady came to gather flowers, 

And rested her fair feet within thy lovely bowers ! 

** O meadow, what was thy delight 

When my sweet lady stept o'er thee, 
And gently stretched her hand so white 

To cull the flowers that fairest be ! 
O tell me, meadow, where her steps have trod, 
That I may place my feet within that lovely sod ! 

" And meadow, pray my lady sweet, 

To tread again thy verdant floor, 
For where she plants her fairy feet, 

Nor frost nor snow shall harm thee more ; 
And say that if she grant me one sweet kiss, 
My heart, like thy fair flowers, shall bloom with very bliss ! ! ' 

i( Can modern poetry," asks a German critic, 
" say any thing more charming ? " 

(i What melody of feeling," exclaims the same 
commentator, " is found in the following strophes 
f3 



106 A SKETCH OF THE 

of the virtuous writer, (Der Tugendhafte Schrei- 
ber,) as he is called in the old collections ; supposed 
to be Heinrich von Rispach. 

" I sing in the wood, 

And of her I complain ; 
"Who my heart has subdued. 
And subdues it again ! 

" As the nightingale sings, 
But sings ever in vain, 
My melody brings 

Me but sorrow and pain ! 

" What avail the sweet lays 

Of the wild warbling throng? 
Who gives them the praise 
That is due to their song ? 

" So the songs that I weave, 
Like the strains of the dove, 
No pity receive, 

No return for my love !" 

"Walther von des Vogelweide was one of the 
most successful and admired poets of this aera. 
He displays a mind far more enlightened and 
capacious, a fancy richer and more copious, and 
a command of language more powerful and ex- 
pressive than we meet with in his contemporaries. 
He treats of religious and philosophical subjects 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 107 

with a feeling and intelligence scarcely to be ex- 
pected in so rude an age ; but most of his poems 
are, according to the prevailing mode, devoted to 
the praise of beauty ; and the following comparison 
of the fair sex with flowers, affords a favourable 
specimen of the skill and taste of their poetic 
admirer. 

" How truly sweet and beautiful is woman fair and kind ! 
Nor can we such delightful charms in other objects find ; 
Or on the earth, or in the air, or 'mid the valleys round, 
In lilies, roses, or in flowers, wherever they are found ! 
To roam amid the fields of May, and hear the sweet 

birds sing, 
Compared with woman's chaste delights, can scarce a 

transport bring. 
When man a lovely maid beholds, he may mock at 

sorrow's pow'r, 
For all his melancholy flies in that same joyous hour ; 
Her small and rosy mouth appears so lovely when it 

smiles, 
And the sparkling of her playful eyes his sorrowing 

heart beguiles!" 

Ulrich von Lichstenstein, an ancestor of the 
noble family of that name, was another distinguished 
and excellent poet of this period ; and the following 
strophes from a Song of Spring, in which the 
favourite themes of these poets, the charms of May 
and of the fair sex, are blended^ are instances of 
almost classic perfection. 



108 A SKETCH OF THE 

" Field and wood, and mead and bower, 

Saw I ne'er so blooming yet, 
For each fair but bending flower, 

With the dew of heaven is wet : 
And the warblers 
Sing the praise of lovely May. 

" So I sing of woman fair, 

In the very best I may, 
All my sorrow and my care 

With her love I'll chase away : 
And her goodness 
Makes the transport of my soul. 

" Woman's honour? woman's beauty, 
Woman's goodness, woman's truth, 

Point to every noblest duty 

That can charm the soul of youth : 

And her favour 

Is the richest good on earth !" 

The reader may be desirous to see the original 
of these productions : the following is the text of 
the last quotation. 

" Heide, velt, wait, anger, ouwe, 

Sah ich nie bekleidet bas 
Von dem lufte suessen touwe 

Sind du bluomen alle nas 
Vogeline 
Singent lob des meien schine. 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 109 

" So singe ich von gueton wiben 

Als ich allerbeste kan 
Mit ir lob wil ich vertriben 

Swas ich imgemuotes han. 
Wibesguete 
Git mir froidenrich gemuete. 

" Wibes scheme, wibes ere, 

Wibes guete, wibes zucht, 
1st furwar ein erenlere 

Minnegernder herzen sucht. 
So ist ir hulde 
Alles guotes iibergulde." 

The next epoch, comprising the long and tedious 
interval between the fourteenth and seventeenth 
centuries, presents a dreary contrast to the brilliancy 
of the preceding age. In the early part of this 
period, the poetry of Romance, neglected and for- 
saken by the nobility and higher orders, fell into 
the hands of the lower and mechanical classes, 
was practised as a regular calling by the guilds and 
corporations of towns, and subjected to rules and 
regulations similar to those prescribed for other 
trades and occupations. This mechanical system of 
poetry gave rise, as was of course to be expected, 
to the most utter degradation of the art. Its 
spirit, fire, and genius, completely evaporated, and 
the very dregs of poetry alone remained. Yet, as 
may be supposed, this extensive space is not wholly 



110 A SKETCH OF THE 

barren and destitute, but presents some few striking 
exceptions to the general dulness and depravation of 
taste. The heroic resistance of the Swiss to the 
Austrians, and to Charles of Burgundy, gave occa- 
sion to some beautiful heroic ballads, and the war- 
songs of Veit Weber have been admired and prized 
in every subsequent age. The celebrated " Ship 
of Fools/' of Sebastian Brandt, is another distin- 
guished work of the same sera. The renowned 
and indefatigable Hans Sachs, the weaver, who 
wrote works by the thousand, lived during this 
period. The celebrated artist, Albrecht Diirer, also 
flourished and wrote on art in this space. Nor 
must we forget the great and important event of 
the Reformation, which occurred during this lapse 
of time, when a simple German monk, the immor- 
tal Luther, a solitary and almost unbefriended 
individual, shook the papal tyranny, and effected a 
moral revolution, the mightiest which for ages had 
happened among mankind. This important event, 
though its first and immediate effects were rather 
prejudicial than otherwise to the cultivation of 
literature, from its attracting the inquiries of man- 
kind chiefly to matters of theological and sectarian 
dispute, yet undoubtedly tended, at a later period, 
to enlarge the limits of the mind, and to extend the 
sphere of literature. A wider range of subjects 
was embraced, satire, fable, works of imagination 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. Ill 

and invention were produced; few, it is true, in 
number, and disfigured by the bad taste and affec- 
tation of the age, yet (to revert again to the idea of 
Mr. Horace Smith) serving as material from which 
was produced a rich intellectual crop in the suc- 
ceeding period. The institutions of foreign nations 
were also copied and introduced into Germany, and 
academies and societies, in imitation of those of 
Italy, were established, without, however, pro- 
ducing any important or lasting improvement in the 
productions of native authors. 

At length we reach a new sera on arriving at the 
middle of the seventeenth century, at which time 
•flourished the celebrated Opitz. This writer, who 
is now considered chiefly remarkable for his extra- 
ordinary activity of mind, since he produced a 
great variety of works during a most unsettled 
life, having scarcely ever lived longer than a year 
in one place, wrote a number of poems, which 
though obsolete now, yet at the time of their ap- 
pearance, by the admiration which they excited, 
and the imitators whom they called forth, effected 
a considerable improvement in the taste and style 
of German poetry of that day. His chief imitators 
were Gryphius, father and son ; Harsdorffer ; Klai, 
and others, whose works, like those of their model 
Opitz, are now nearly forgotten. A like oblivion has 
covered the productions of Hofiinannswaldau, who, 



112 A SKETCH OF THE 

like Opitz, was a native of Silesia, and founded 
what has been called the second Silesian school of 
poets. His taste, however, less pure even than that 
of Opitz, speedily lost its favour with his country- 
men, and his works were soon neglected. German 
literature, at the close of the seventeenth and 
commencement of the eighteenth century, now 
suffered its lowest and last degradation, A servile 
imitation of the style of Louis XIV. prevailed to 
the exclusion of any thing like originality of 
thought or feeling ; and, as is usual in imitations 
of so slavish a character, the faults of the model 
were copied with scarcely any portion of its advan- 
tages or beauties. At length, about the first 
quarter of the eighteenth century, the long hoped 
for renovation came, being brought about by the 
genius and energies of a circle of as distinguished 
minds as ever adorned any age in any country. 
The first revival of German taste proceeded from 
what is termed the Swiss school of criticism, when 
the celebrated Bodmer, with the feeling of a true 
patriot and a true poet, collected the neglected 
remains of the beautiful romantic poetry of the 
Swabian age, already named, and revealed to the 
admiring German public the genius and taste of 
their forgotten forefathers. A number of writers, 
of various talents and distinguished genius, now 
arose, each of whom has acquired a European 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE* 113 

reputation, and exalted the poetic and literary 
character of their nation to a height which it pro- 
bably never will surpass. The great and hallowed 
names of Klopstock, Haller, Wieland, Lessing, 
Gellert, Cramer, Kleist, Mendelssohn, Abbt, 
Mosheim, Miiller, Herder, Richter, Gothe, Schiller, 
the youthful Korner, the brothers Stolberg, the 
brothers Schlegel, the brothers Humboldt, form, 
with many others, a constellation of genius, whose 
bright and brilliant course, commenced about the 
middle of the last century, sheds a halo of glory 
over the present day. Far from being able to 
discuss the qualities of these various writers and 
exalted men, in the brief space of our discourse, 
there is not an author named who would not require 
a separate lecture, if not a series, adequately to 
describe him, and to render complete justice to his 
merits. 

We will now draw to a close, with a brief and 
imperfect summary of the writings and the talents 
of some of these distinguished men. With whom 
shall we commence ? — for in this embarrassment of 
intellectual riches it becomes difficult to select our 
first treasure. Shall we commence with Schiller, the 
greatest tragic poet of this or any modern age ?— 
shall we call your attention to his romantic Rob- 
bers, to his inimitable Don Carlos ; or in his Mary 
Stuart point out the celebrated passage in which, 



114 A SKETCH OF THE 

using a pardonable freedom with historic fact, he 
brings on the same celebrated scene, the relentless 
Elizabeth and her hapless victim, the ill-fated 
Mary ; or shall we direct you to that still more 
affecting scene, the last confession of the unhappy 
Mary, a passage which Madame de Stael has so 
splendidly and deservedly eulogized ? Passing by 
the other works of this immortal man, his admi- 
rable historical writings, and his inimitable ballads, 
shall we next contemplate Gothe, whose varied 
powers seem almost too extensive to have been 
possessed by a single individual and a mere mortal ? 
A poet in all the varied moods of the lyre, a critic, 
a dramatist, a philosopher, a traveller, a chemist, a 
naturalist, and a geologist, to him may be applied 
the splendid eulogy which our own Johnson be- 
stowed on Goldsmith, that " there was no kind of 
knowledge which he did not cultivate, and none 
which he cultivated w T hich he did not adorn !" The 
same praise will, with equal justice, apply to Her- 
der, who as a poet, critic, historian, and antiquary, 
has been entitled, from the extent and variety of 
his attainments, the Christian Voltaire, excelling 
that extraordinary man in the circumstance, that 
his talents were employed not in deriding or scoff- 
ing at religion, but in exalting and diffusing it. 
How delightful is it to dwell on the productions of 
such a mindj on his moral and philosophical reflec- 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 115 

tions, so enlightened, benevolent, and just ; on his 
beautiful and affecting ballads, on his touching 
parables, second in wisdom, goodness, and inspira- 
tion, only to those of Scripture itself! How admi- 
rable are the life and works of Mendelssohn, the 
philosophic, the gentle, the wise ! How delight- 
fully instructive the productions of Gellert, the 
philanthropic, amiable, suffering Gellert, w r ho, as 
an elegant and philosophic writer, an author of 
fables and apologues, and personally a hypochon- 
driac, so forcibly reminds us of our own interesting 
Cowper ! One fact which is recorded in his life, 
will speak his praise far more eloquently than 
any eulogium which can now be delivered. He 
was, one autumn evening, called into the court- 
yard of his house by a peasant, w r ho had brought a 
waggon loaded with wood, and who inquired if he 
were the Professor Gellert, who had written such 
beautiful poems, and on being answered in the 
affirmative, stated that he and his neighbours had 
read those poems with so much delight, that being 
very poor persons, utterly destitute of money, they 
had gone to the neighbouring forest, and prepared 
a supply of wood for his winter fire, which they 
begged him to accept as the only means in their 
humble power of acknowledging the entertainment 
and instruction which they had derived from his 
admirable productions ! Gellert was frequently 



116 , A SKETCH OF THE 

honoured with the approbation of learned societies 
and crowned heads, but this humble tribute of 
the poor Saxon peasants was ever regarded by 
his friends and himself as his most honourable 
eulogy. We can but glance at the merits of the 
spirited ode writers, Kleist and Gleim; or the 
varied qualities of the elegant and imaginative 
Wieland; or the abilities and virtues of Haller, 
the poet and the physiologist, the Christian mo- 
ralist, the wise, the good. A passing tribute is due 
to the youthful Korner, whose w T orks the writer has 
introduced, by a translation, to the English public, 
and who prematurely fell in battle against the 
enemies of his country, after having completed a 
brilliant literary career, at an age when most men 
have scarcely commenced it, having fallen at the 
age of twenty-one ! The abilities and the fame of 
such minds as those of the Schlegels, or the Hum- 
boldts, of Lampadius, or Werner, are known and 
esteemed as far as knowledge and civilization 
extend. 

We have reserved to the last the greatest, the 
most celebrated, the most sublime poet of the 
whole, who is almost beyond our powers of praise, 
and whose fame, like his subject, is imperishable, 
immutable, and immortal ! Need it be added, that 
this author is Klopstock, the poet of the Messiah. 
To do justice to the varied attributes of such a 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 117 

mind, to portray the genius, learning, taste, and 
inspiration which produced his great poem and his 
sublime odes, is utterly impossible in a single 
essay ; and it may be necessary to add, that highly 
as his chief work is valued, it is admired more for 
its lyrical and reflective, than for its narrative por- 
tions, and that his ode-poetry is, by many critics, 
preferred to his great work itself. My own indi- 
vidual opinion is of little moment, and I may err 
in my judgment; but I have ever regarded the 
odes of Klopstock as the most exalted, the most 
sublime, the most delightful poetry that I have ever 
read, by any author, or in any language. The 
subjects are so lofty; the diction so splendid; the 
imagery so beautiful ; the sentiments so just, ex- 
alted and sublime ; and the whole effect so elevating 
to the mind and heart, that the reader, raised be- 
yond the sphere of common-place feeling and com- 
mon-place existence, listens entranced in rapture 
and in awe while the bard descants on his exalted 
and beloved themes, the joys of friendship, the 
attractions of wisdom, the delights of virtue, the 
happiness of a well-spent life, the aspiration after a 
higher, a holier, and a better ! How severe i§ the 
denial which forbids us to describe his literary life 
and pursuits, or his domestic and personal charac- 
ter, so manly, so amiable, so excellent ! What 
delight were it to dwell on the character of that 



118 A SKETCH OF THE 

excellent being whom it pleased the Almighty to 
bestow on him as his wife, and then shortly to call 
her to another and a better world, his adored and 
sainted Meta ! Excuse for a moment, if, passing 
by th« sublimer odes of Klopstock, that on the 
Omnipresence of the Deity, that on his Recovery 
from Illness, on the Vision of God, the great Hal- 
lelujah, &c, we select the following short but ex- 
quisite ode to his beloved wife. The circumstances 
which gave rise to it were merely that, on entering 
her sitting-room one summer afternoon, he found 
her asleep ; and after contemplating her for some 
time in silence, he left on the couch on which she 
was reposing the following ode, which is unrivalled 
for its tenderness, as his more sacred productions 
are for their majesty, and proves that this greatest 
of poets was as much a master of the pathetic as 
he was of the sublime ! 

TO CIDLI SLEEPING. 
" She sleeps ! O slumber, pour on her 
A new and balmy life ; 

From Eden's pure, untroubled fountain draw 
A bright and crystal drop ! and shed it there, 
Where on her slumb'ring cheek 
Its waking red hath flown. And thou, 
O sweet repose of virtue and of love, 
Shade, with thine angel wing, my sleeping bride : 
She slumbers yet, how sweetly and how softly ! 
O my lyre, be hushed ! for know 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 119 

Thy laurel wreath shall fade if thou awake, 
With softest whisper wake my sleeping love ! " 

To show that this admirable woman was worthy 
the attachment of such a man, it will be sufficient 
only to cite a portion of her own correspondence. 
The following is an extract from a letter addressed 
by her to the celebrated Richardson, the author of 
Clarissa ; and though containing some German 
idioms, it displays an acquaintance with our lan- 
guage which is highly creditable to the talents of 
its accomplished and excellent writer. After some 
preliminary observations, she states — " In one 
happy night I read my husband's poem, ' The 
Messiah.' I was extremely touched with it. The 
next day I asked one of his friends, who was the 
author of this poem ; and this was the first time I 
heard Klopstock's name. * * * But I had no 
hopes ever to see him, when, quite unexpectedly, 
I heard that he should pass through Hamburgh. I 
wrote immediately to the same friend for procuring, 
by his means, that I might see the author of i The 
Messiah,' when in Hamburgh. He told him that 
a certain girl in Hamburgh wished to see him ; 
and, for all recommendation, showed him some 
letters in which I made bold to criticise Klopstock's 
verses. Klopstock came ; and came to me. I must 
confess, that though greatly prepossessed of his 



120 A SKETCH OF THE 

good qualities, I never thought him the amiable 
youth whom I found him. This made its effect. 
After having seen him two hours, I was obliged 
to pass the evening in a society which never had 
been so wearisome to me. I could not speak, I 
could not play. I saw him the next day and the 
following, and we were very seriously friends. But 
the fourth day he departed ; it was a strong hour, 
the hour of his departure." She then describes 
their correspondence and their mutual attachment. 
" But we were obliged to part again, and wait two 
years for our wedding. My mother would not let 
me marry a stranger. I could marry then without 
her consentment, as, by the death of my father my 
fortune depended not on her ; but," observes this 
amiable being, " this was a horrible idea for 
me, and thank Heaven that I have prevailed by 
my prayers. At this time, knowing Klopstock, 
she loves him as her lifely son, and thanks God that 
she has not persisted. We married; and I am 
the happiest wife in the world ; in some few weeks 
it will be four years that I am so happy, and I still 
dote on Klopstock as if he was my bridegroom. If 
you knew my husband, you would not wonder. If 
you knew his poem, I could describe him very 
briefly, by saying he is in all respects what he is as 
a poet. * * * But I dare not speak of my husband, 
I am all raptures when I do it." 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 121 

Their innocent and happy loves had a sudden 
and melancholy termination. They had been 
married, as she states, four years, their only un- 
fulfilled wish, that of being blessed with offspring, 
was about to be gratified, when it pleased the Al- 
mighty to recall her gentle spirit to himself, and 
the w r ife of Klopstock died in giving birth to a son, 
w T ho survived her but a few hours. This melan- 
choly bereavement gave a yet gentler tone to the 
feelings and compositions of Klopstock. He en- 
shrined her as a new character in his great poem ; 
during fifty years of widow T hood he continued to 
lament her loss ; and when in more advanced life, 
in conformity with the advice and the washes of his 
friends, he sought a companion and a solace, he 
married the cousin of his wife, a lady, who in 
addition to some excellent qualities of her own, 
had known and loved his sainted Meta ! 

We are this evening favoured with the presence 
of a gentleman, who, as he informs me, once passed 
an evening with Klopstock. Time had then done 
its work ; seventy winters had shed their snows 
upon the poet's head; but his youthful feelings 
still remained, he entertained his early love for 
our country and her sons, and on hearing that our 
friend was at Hamburgh, sent and expressed a 
wish to pass an evening with the countryman of 
Milton. He died shortly after, w r as honoured with 



122 A SKETCH OF THE 

a public funeral and a public mourning ; and, after 
fifty years of separation, was united in the same 
tomb with his Meta. " Lovely in their lives, in 
their deaths they were not divided." 

We will now conclude this imperfect sketch 
with a brief review of those departments of know- 
ledge in which the Germans have chiefly excelled. 
In mental and moral philosophy they boast the 
names of Leibnitz, of Jacobi, of Kant ; in astro- 
nomy, of Kepler ; in physiology, of Blumen- 
bach and Haller ; in geology, mineralogy, and 
chemistry, of Humboldt, Werner, and Lampa- 
dius. In biblical literature a similar renown is 
attached to the names of Michaelis, Griesbach, and 
Mosheim ; in classical learning, to those of Heyne 
and Ernesti. In the drama, the works of Schiller 
are alike distinguished ; as are those of Miiller in 
history ; while their poets are as extensive in num- 
ber as they are varied in excellence; and Klop- 
stock, Schiller, Wieland, Burger, Goethe, Gellert, 
Kleist, Tiedge, Korner, Gleim, with many others 
whom it is impossible to describe, or even to name 
at present, are renowned as far as civilization ex- 
tends. Nor are the Germans less celebrated in 
other departments of excellence. In the divine 
art of music, they are immortalized by the single 
name of either Handel or Mozart. Nor is their 
reputation confined to their own nation or Ian- 



GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 123 

guage ; in most departments of knowledge their 
superiority is universally acknowledged and revered. 
What modern poet has attained to the sublimity of 
Klopstock ? what geologist has surpassed the fame 
of Humboldt? what chemist that of Berzelius or 
Lampadius ? what biblical critic has equalled the 
celebrity of Mosheim or Michaelis ? what classic 
approached that of Heyne or Ernesti ? finally, 
what musician can even be compared to Handel or 
Mozart ? and, to come down to the present mo- 
ment, what traveller has given so able, so faithful, 
and so interesting an account of this country as the 
liberal, enlightened, and judicious Von Raumer ? 

Finally, it is to the efforts of German genius 
and the labours of German perseverance that man- 
kind in general, and we as a nation in particular, 
are indebted for some of the most valuable dis- 
coveries and inventions which have enlightened and 
benefited mankind. The invention of gunpowder, 
as already observed, has softened the ferocity of 
war, and established a barrier against cruelty and 
barbarism ; that of printing has diffused light and 
knowledge over the whole earth : nor can we 
forget that to the exertions of Luther, and the 
example shown by him, and the brave and indepen- 
dent character of his countrymen, we, as a nation, 
owe our own emancipation from popish tyranny, 
thraldom, and superstition. 
g 2 



TO A YOUNG LADY, ON HER MARRIAGE. 



The following lines, with others which will be specified, were 
honoured by the Marquis of Northampton with insertion in a 
Collection of Poems, published by his Lordship in 1837, and 
entitled, "The Tribute." 



And thou shalt be a bride to-day — thou lov'd, and good, 

and fair, 
And the ring is waiting for thy hand, the wreath is in 

thy hair ; 
The young, the gay, the glad are met, to hail the joyous 

scene, 
And thy bridemaids wait upon thy steps, like fairies 

round their queen! 

Thy young life hath been only past in love, and joy, and 

bliss, 
Thou but hast known a mother's care, a sister's love and 

kiss ; 
But thou shalt seek another now, shalt bear another's 

name, 
And the love, that we alone have shared, another now 

may claim ! 



TO A YOUNG LADY, ON HER MARRIAGE. 125 

For thou, fair girl, art like the bird, that left her ark of 

rest, 
To seek a dwelling-place on earth, and build herself a 

nest ; 
So thou hast left thy happy home, in other spheres to soar, 
And, like the dove the patriarch sent, shalt seek thine 

ark no more ! 

And sad our task will be and long, thy memory to 

retrace ; 
To see — in fancy see — thy form, and view thy vacant 

place ; 
To dwell, with grief, on every charm that bade us once 

rejoice, 
And miss the magic of thy smile — the music of thy voice ! 

One hope the while shall cheer our woes, and soothe our 

griefs to rest, 
It is the thought, where'er thou art, that thou must still 

be blest ; 
For howsoe'er thy lot be cast — wherever thou mayst be, 
All gentlest hopes and kindest loves must live and dwell 

with thee ! 

And when before the sacred shrine thou standest shortly 

now, 
To pledge thy faith to God and man, and breathe the 

life-long vow ; 
Our warmest loves, our fondest thoughts, shall all be with 

thee there, 
And meet and mingle in the sky in blessing and in 

prayer ! 



126 TO A YOUNG LADY, ON HER MARRIAGE. 

But hark ! they call — thy lover waits — no more must we 

delay — 
We fain would hold thee ever thus, yet dare not bid thee 

stay; 
These streaming eyes, these breaking hearts, the pain of 

parting tell, 
And these faint sobs are meant to say, but cannot speak> 

farewell ! 



THE ELECTRESS PALATIXE TO HER 
BROTHER, CHARLES I. 



Charles I., by the intervention and persuasion of the Court of 
Spain, sent Sir Henry Vane to the Electress Palatine, with orders 
to lay before her, in the most persuasive manner, the expediency of 
allowing her eldest son to be educated a Papist at the court of 
Vienna, with a view to make a match between him and one of the 
princesses of the house of Austria. To which representation she 
replied heroically — " That rather than comply with so irreligious 
and mean a proposal, she would be her son's executioner with 
her own hands." 



What ! snatch my darling from my heart, 

My one, sad solace in distress, 
And sell his nobler, better part, 

For sinful Esau's sav'ry mess ! 
Oh ! no ; the spirit of his sire 

Would look in vengeance from the skies ; 
And Heav'n itself in deeds of ire, 

Denounce so base a sacrifice ! 



128 THE ELECTRESS PALATINE TO HER BROTHER. 

No ! rather on the headsman's block, 

I'd see my child, my darling lay ; 
And bear — as bear I might, the shock 

That tore his parting life away ! 
No ! rather with my parent hands, 

I'd cut myself his thread of youth. 
Than see him rich in wealth and lands, 

Purchas'd with honour and with truth ! 

Go, then, and face my brother's frown ; 

Say we repel so base a thought ; 
And poor, and outcast, spurn a crown, 

If with our faith, our honour bought ! 
And tell him from my child, that he 

Will keep the path his father trod ; 
Will outcast, poor, and banish'd be, 

But true to honour and to God ! 



IL RXTRATTO DEL PITTORE. 



While inspecting, in the autumn of last year, 
the deserted apartments and faded glories of the 
Palazzo P— — , one of the noblest structures in 
Florence, and once the residence of its reigning 
family, my attention was excited by a female por- 
trait of exceeding beauty. It is placed on the 
right as you enter the first picture gallery, and is 
fixed so inconveniently high, as not perhaps to 
have attracted the attention which is due alike 
to the perfect loveliness which it portrays, and the 
admirable style of art evinced in its execution. 
The features, on closer examination, I found to 
be exquisitely handsome ; uniting with the dark 
eye and hair of the South, somewhat of the pale 
tint and oval contour of face which are regarded 
as the characteristics of northern beauty ; while 
the lofty and majestic brow, the bright and elo- 
quent eye, the small and delicate mouth, im- 
pressed as every feature was with a more than 
feminine gentleness and sweetness, realized the 
fairest and most appropriate attributes of female 
g 3 



130 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

loveliness, and presented a face and form of almost 
angelic beauty. The figure, which was tall and 
commanding, was attired in the magnificent, yet 
somewhat cumbrous costume of the middle ages ; 
and the painting, which was of comparatively 
small size, was enshrined, and almost hidden, in 
a frame of the most gorgeous carving I ever 
remember to have beheld. Observing that my 
attention was particularly drawn to the portrait, 
our cicerone, a pretty black-eyed native girl, 
interrupted my meditations. 

" E bellissimo questo ritratto" was her remark ; 
and she added that the picture was an especial 
favourite of her own, not merely, " per la sua hel- 
lezza straordinaria" but for a legend of much 
interest connected with its history. Would 
"Eccellenza" like to hear it? I signified my 
assent; and accordingly, while the rest of the 
party were perambulating the apartments, the 
attention of a few minutes, and the gratuity of 
a few lire, procured me the information contained 
in the following pages. 



The reader of Italian annals will remember 
the dark and gloomy pages containing the his- 
tory of the enmities and wars which so long pre- 
vailed between the rival cities of Florence and 



IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 181 

Milan, and proved so destructive to both. After 
a long period of impolitic and devastating warfare, 
however, the politicians of that day made the 
discovery, that a state of hostility was by no 
means a desirable condition of things, and that 
the wisest thing" thev could do with the war. would 
be to put an end to it altogether, and return to 
that peace from which they had so unwisely 
departed ; — a discovery, strange to say, which 
has been made and forgotten by statesmen and 
politicians over and over again, from the earliest 
and darkest ages, down to that eminently en- 
lightened of all aeras — the present day ! Having 
severely and mutually suffered from the ravages 
of war, it became the natural object of both parties 
to secure themselves from so dire a calamity in 
future, by forming an alliance of the most lasting- 
kind : and as the fetters of Hymen are considered 
among the most durable of those which can bind 
the human race, the aid of the little god was 
invoked, and the hand of the Donna Isidora, 
daughter of the reigning Duke of Milan, was 
sought by the plenipotentiaries of Florence for the 
young prince Rinaldo, son of the ruling potentate 
of the rival state. 

In those days, when, as indeed is the case in 
many parts of the continent at this hour, the 
wishes of those principally concerned are least of 



132 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

all consulted ; and where, as regarded the female 
party, it would have been considered the height 
of indelicacy even to express an opinion on. the 
subject, the matter was speedily arranged. The 
aged Count Ricci, a veteran minister, grown grey 
in intrigues and aifairs of state, demanded the 
hand of the lady, which was accorded in the most 
prompt and business-like manner by the Milanese 
council of state, assembled for that and other 
deliberations ; and the young prince, Rinaldo, who 
was then on his travels, was requested by his father 
to bring his peregrinations to a close on or before 
a certain day, when he was to receive the hand 
of the lady Isidora, his destined bride. 

The prince replied to the injunctions of his 
father, by signifying his readiness to obey his 
commands, and the lady yielded a similar respect 
to the orders of her parent. The prince, in his 
missive, merely requested that one little cere- 
monial, which he believed was customary on these 
occasions, might not be omitted in his instance. 
He had heard high encomiums of the personal as 
well as the mental charms of his intended bride : 
might he be so favoured as to possess her portrait ; 
and would his old and valued friend, Count Ricci, 
kindly undertake the necessary arrangements, and 
select the artist who should be entrusted with so 
delicate a commission. He was informed that his 



IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. loo 

wishes should be strictly fulfilled, and Count Ricci 
assured him of the pleasure he should have in 
superintending the execution of his desires. A 
request which he had slightly urged, that he might 
be allowed to protract his travels till the eve of 
his marriage, was alike cheerfully and promptly 
accorded. 

Meantime the preliminaries of peace were con- 
cluded ; — tranquillity, with its accompanying fetes 
and rejoicings, delighted those whom war, and its 
concomitant sufferings, had afflicted before ; and 
the preparations for the marriage of the young and 
lovely Isidora occupied and delighted all Milan. 
Art and nature were ransacked for her embel- 
lishment; for the silks, and gauzes, and velvets 
in which she was to be attired, and for the pearls 
and gems which should adorn a beauty more 
bright and brilliant than their own. Milan was 
thronged with the merchants of Italy, Flanders, 
and the East, and the magnificence of her trous>~ 
seau } the number and beauty of her dresses, and 
the rarity and costliness of her jewels, engaged the 
tongues, and well nigh turned the heads of half 
the girls in Milan ! 

It was soon announced that the artist, who was 
honoured with the task of painting the portrait 
of the lovely bride, had arrived in Mantua, and 
had taken up his abode at the Palazzo of Count 



134 IL RITRATT0 DEL PITTORE. 

Ricci ; and the day after his arrival he waited, 
with a billet from that noble, on the lady Isidora, 
for the purpose of fulfilling his mission. 

He was ushered into the princely apartment, 
where sat the proud and beautiful girl enshrined 
in all the rich accessories of rank and luxury, and 
still more splendidly adorned with the natural gifts 
of elegance and beauty. Her figure was tall and 
commanding, and the expression of her counte- 
nance corresponded with the proud promise of her 
form. The finely-chiselled profile of her face, the 
noble and classic contour of her features, the lofty 
bearing of her brow, the proud and dignified ex- 
pression of her eye, tempered and softened as they 
were with the gentlest expression of feeling and 
affection, exhibited the noblest yet sweetest attri- 
butes of feminine beauty ; and she sat enthroned 
in proud and queen-like, yet graceful loveliness, at 
once inviting and defying the painter to his task, 
attracting him by the splendour and variety of her 
charms, and repelling him by the hopelessness, the 
all but impossibility, of portraying them ! 

The aspect of the painter afforded a striking con- 
trast to the appearance of the proud and splendid 
beauty before whom he was summoned. Plainly, 
and almost poorly attired, his look diffident and un- 
assuming, his demeanour respectful and submis- 
sive ; he however still exhibited that superiority of 



IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 135 

demeanour, that conscious dignity of manners, 
which was by no means the unusual characteristic 
of Italian artists at a period, when young men of 
distinguished birth and descent devoted themselves 
to the cultivation of the arts, and the boast, 
" Ancliio son pittore" was the pride of some of her 
noblest sons ! 

With firm but respectful courtesy he announced 
his name and errand, and presented the note of 
Count Ricci, which recommended him to the 
favourable notice of the Lady Isidora. 

A few minutes w r ere devoted by the latter osten- 
sibly to the purpose of reading the note, but, in 
reality, to that of perusing the countenance of the 
artist, and ascertaining the expression of his cha- 
racter. Apparently the result was satisfactory, for 
she addressed him with a smile of much benignity. 

" You have travelled, Signor Pittore ; so says 
our friend Count Ricci ; and have visited various 
countries in the suite of your prince ? " 

The painter bowed assent. 

" Tis well; the task of sitting for a portrait is 
somewhat wearisome, both to the artist and the 
object; and your kindness, if we may presume to 
request it, in relating the adventures of your travel. 
may beguile the fatigue of your task as well as our 
own." 

The youth replied in the usual form of courtesy. 



136 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

complimenting himself on having been honoured 
with a duty so agreeable; " so replete/' he ob- 
served, " with gratification, and in which fatigue, 
on his part at least, could have no share ;" when 
he was interrupted by the lady, who resumed :■ — 

" If, Signor, your leisure permit, and you have 
materials at hand, we can now commence the object 
of your mission. Be this our first sitting/' 

Bowing compliance, he proposed to devote his 
first attempt to sketching the outline of the face 
and figure ; the remainder could be filled in at those 
subsequent opportunities with which he hoped to 
be favoured. 

He then placed himself on a low seat immediately 
facing that on which the princess half reclined, 
and whence he could possess a full view of the fair 
object of his art. The lady, animated, of course, 
by the laudable desire of appearing to the best 
advantage to the eye of her intended consort, sum- 
moned up her most effective attitude, her most 
impressive looks ! The painter, on his part, applied 
with no common devotion to his arduous yet pleas- 
ing duty. He first narrowly inspected each sepa- 
rate feature ; and the soul-lit eye, the small and 
rosy mouth, and the fair and glowing cheek, were, 
by turns, the objects of scrutiny and admiration. 
He soon traced the outline of the face, and thence 
proceeding rapidly with the figure, interspersed his 



1L RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 137 

advice and suggestions as to position, attitude, and 
other particulars, either with remarks of his own, 
so unassuming, yet so appropriate and just ; or 
with replies to the observations of the lady, of so 
equally acceptable a kind ; that the time passed 
rapidly away, and the fair sitter was surprised and 
delighted when, at the close of, comparatively, a 
short period, he handed for her inspection a sketch 
of her second self, an outline of her face and form, 
which, necessarily imperfect as it was, showed how 
' nearly the finished portrait would approach to the 
living personification of elegance and beauty* 

After a due share of examination, of criticism, 
and, it is proper to add, a merited degree of en- 
comium, the painter was dismissed, with the order 
to resume his attendance on the following day. 
And the day following, and the day after, and day 
after day, did the young artist return to fulfil a 
task which was so delightful to each, but so likely, 
alas ! to prove fatal to both ! By degrees, slow, 
indeed, and imperceptible to others and to herself, 
the Lady Isidora relaxed the hauteur of her man- 
ner; she felt and testified the interest she took in 
the attention of the artist, suffered no engagement 
to interfere with his attendance, and looked to the 
moment of his arrival with anxiety and interest. 
Though brought up in the secluded manner usual 
at that time, and knowing, in fact, little of the 



138 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

world, save that which could be gleaned in the 
comparatively limited circle of her father's court ; 
she yet possessed that good sense and good feeling, 
that native propriety, that taste for the fair and 
good, and contempt for their opposites, which 
often supply the place of more extended obser- 
vation ; so that she listened with delight to the 
animated conversation of the youth, who evidently 
felt, at least, an equal delight in her converse and 
society. 

His mind, on the other hand, strong and vigorous 
in itself, had been improved by early and judicious 
culture, and was expanded and enriched by the 
advantages of travel and observation. And de- 
lightful was their interchange of thought and feel- 
ing; varied, and sympathizing, and sweet, their 
mutual converse. Often would he prolong the 
hour allotted to his visit to thrice the space ; too 
often would he lose sight of the object of his at- 
tendance altogether, and forget the painter in the 
instructor, the friend, the admirer ! He had tra- 
velled far and wide, had visited each spot of his 
fair and native Italy, from sunny Naples to classic 
Rome ; had passed the Alps, and sought the gay 
plains of France, the romantic land of Spain, the 
rich cities and commercial marts of Flanders and 
the Low Countries ; and had even crossed the sea, 
and sought a rude, and all but unknown, land, 



IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 139 

called England, and even here his inquiring mind 
had found matter of admiration. " They are poor 
and rude, lady ;"— thus would he speak of these 
far islanders : — " their hills are bleak and barren, 
their valleys poor and sterile ; the sun smiles not 
there as in fair Italy, but is, during half the year, 
enveloped in fogs ; their fruits are scarce and few ; 
the grape yields not to them, as to us, its rich and 
copious juice, and men are fain to cheer the slug- 
gish current of their souls with rude drinks, pressed 
from the barley-corn. Yet these islanders are 
proud, and brave, and free ; their women fair 
and fond ; they love their rude, inclement land, 
and shame, by their attachment to their native 
' soil, our baser Italians, who lacerate the maternal 
bosom of their country with intestine wars and 
divisions, and stain it with their blood ! " 

The lady sighed as she assented to the remark, 
for she felt that her own destiny (respecting which 
she now, for the first time, conceived a strange, 
undefined apprehension,) was determined by the 
existence of these very evils. 

Or occasionally they would revert to the portrait, 
which Donna Isidora would think too flattering, 
-and fear that it would disappoint the prince by 
surpassing the original, while the artist would re- 
spectfully differ, and regret the inability of art to 
represent the reality of loveliness, the graces of 



140 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

life and beauty. Occasionally they would rise from 
the consideration of the mere features, to that of 
the sentiments and feelings which gave them their 
expression and their beauty ; the cheek, the mouth, 
the lip, were matters of gratifying and instructive 
comment ; and on the eye alone their discussions 
would have filled a volume ! 

They would thus discourse of the improvement 
of the mind, the amelioration of the heart, and 
their themes were the charms of nature, the delights 
of poetry, the joys of friendship, and the bliss of 
love ; and their young minds accorded in so per- 
fect a harmony, their bosoms beat in so sweet an 
unison, that they felt they were born for hap- 
piness and for each other. In him she beheld a 
character whose principles and feelings were in 
strict accordance with her own, strengthened and 
improved by larger experience of life and wider 
extent of observation, and whose elements realized 
all that she thought and felt to be appropriate to 
the manly sex, And he, like every youth of intel- 
lect and feeling, had formed to himself a beau ideal 
of the female nature, a being all gifts and graces, 
exalted in intellect, gentle in affection, elegant in 
manners and in mind. He had visited many coun- 
tries and observed many persons, and despaired of 
finding in life the vision of his dreams, when he 
discovered in her a being whose face and form 



IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 141 

outshone the fictions of fancy, as her mind alike 
excelled the dreamings of imagination ! 

Occasionally they would revert to his painter's 
art,- and he would seize the pencil, and a few mas- 
terly touches would suffice to sketch out some 
scene of natural beauty or grandeur— an Alpine 
forest or a lonely mountain-torrent, or some scene 
of peaceful, sylvan beauty or pastoral sweetness, 
and ever in a nook of the painting would be seen 
a little cot, the nest of peace and innocence, the 
home of love; and each felt and wished that the 
cottage was theirs, where, remote from the ambi- 
tion and cares of the world, they might live for 
each other and for bliss ! 

Or occasionally they would converse of other arts 
save painting. " Are you fond of music, Signor ; 
and do you play on any instrument?" asked 
Isidora, one morning, 

" The prince is devoted to the art," replied the 
youth; "and in his court we should think it a 
disgrace not to perform at least on one. In Italy 
I touched the mandoline, in France I changed it 
to the guitar, wandered with it through Spain, 
and even the rude burghers of Flanders and the 
ruder English were not insensible to my strains. 
Would it please you, lady, to hear a ditty of those 
lands?" and, on receiving her assent, he took a 
guitar which she handed to him, and after a few 



142 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

preliminary chords, he sang a melody in each of 
those tongues— Italian, French, Spanish, and Ger- 
man, with the appropriate language and expression 
of each ; the styles of the music were different, the 
poetry which accompanied them was alike diversi- 
fied, but the theme was one :— love, still, love was 
the subject of every song! 

Time thus passed on, and the Lady Isidora gra- 
dually, and scarce perceptibly, imbibed an ardent 
affection for the stranger, till it was no longer to 
be hid; her every look and action betrayed that 
secret, which, of all others, woman fain would, but 
never can conceal — her affection for the being of 
her choice. The feeling would break forth in spite 
of herself; and one morning in particular, while 
conversing with her youngest and most favourite 
attendant, Teresina, she was herself alarmed at the 
progress which her attachment had secretly and 
silently made. 

" Surely," she observed, " our pittore is a gallant 
cavalier, and one fit to win hearts, if such be his 
purpose. Deemest thou, Teresina, he hath made 
a conquest of any of our Milanese damosels, or, 
perchance, he thinks not of them ?" 

" Why yes — no," responded her confidant, " that 
is — but, Altezza, may I presume to entrust you 
with a secret ?" 

" Yes, certainly," said the princess, with ill- 



IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 148 

suppressed agitation ; " yes — now — your secret, 
Teresina — quick — your secret ! " 

" Pazienza Signorina, you must know that the 
other morning I was going to the Chiesa di San 
Paolo, with your Highness's books of devotion, 
ready for your use ; when who should be waiting at 
the grand portal of the church but our cavalier 
himself. He stopped me, and inquired eagerly if 
your Highness would be at mass that morning. I 
replied that you certainly would ; and with that 
he seemed so delighted — " 

" Did he !" interrupted the princess; " faithful, 
affectionate — that is, dutiful and attentive young 
man ! " 

" But your Highness interrupts me," said Tere- 
sina, pettishly; " yes, he was so delighted — that 
— that he tapped me under my chin, and imprinted 
at least a dozen kisses on my lips." 

But a cloud dark as thunder passed over the 
brow of Isidora, and a flash of fire, such as gives 
the lightning birth, darted from her eye, as she 
scarce distinctly exclaimed, " But you did not — you 
could not — 'encourage such presumption, such folly !" 

" Santa Maria /" cried the frighted girl, alarmed 
at the unwonted expression of rage in her mistress, 
who, though proud and determined, was kind and 
gentle as the nestling dove. " Why where's the 
harm of a kiss ? Encourage him ? — -not I, indeed. 



144 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

I only thanked him and made him a curtsey, and 
went the next day at the same hour, to the same 
place, but he took no notice of me then, Signorina; 
he was all attention to your Highness, for you 
were there, praying at the Cappella del Santo 
Cuore, offering a service for the repose of the soul 
of your lady -mother." 

The transient cloud which had overspread the 
noble brow of Isidora, passed away as she forgave 
the thoughtless maiden, and received her again 
into her confidence. 

The visits of the painter became more frequent, 
and more lengthened, and the partiality of Donna 
Isidora could not be concealed even from her 
attendants. To Teresina, in particular, who was 
her foster-sister, her companion, and confidant, 
since childhood, she could no longer hide her 
distaste for her approaching union, and her par- 
tiality for her humble lover. 

" I know what I should do," said Teresina, 
tossing up her little head with an air of the most 
perfect magnanimity ; (( I know what I should do, 
Signorita, were I in your Highness's place." 

-- And what course would you adopt ?" anxiously 
inquired the Princess, eager to derive information 
from any source, however humble. 

" I should take the painter at once, to be sure, 
and give up the prince altogether ! " 



IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 145 

" Alas ["replied her mistress, " you advise a course 
which I feel to be impossible ; beside, Teresina, 
you are not aware any more than myself that the 
artist entertains any sentiment akin to that which 
I feel in my own bosom. In all our interviews he 
has never expressed a feeling of the kind; not a 
word, not an expression has escaped his lips which 
may be construed into a declaration of attachment. 
That he may, indeed, entertain certain feelings 
of respect and regard, I admit may be probable ; 
but surely, had he conceived a deep or powerful 
passion, he would have declared it ere now." 

" It is this very depth and force of his passion, 
Lady, which renders it difficult, nay impossible, to 
declare it. Every circumstance compels him to 
silence ; respect for his employer, his patron, his 
prince ; deference also to the rank and station of 
yourself; and, above all, the sincerity and truth of 
his love ; believe me, these are the only but 
sufficient seals which close his lips in respectful 
but admiring silence. But if his tongue, indeed, 
be hushed, all else is eloquent in your praise. 
When, Lady, he contemplates your features, and 
sketches each lineament of life ; or when leaving 
his employ to converse with you, he gazes in silent, 
mournful admiration on your face ; or when perus- 
ing the same book together he steals a timid, 
furtive glance to read the fairer volume which that 

H 



146 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

face unfolds ; O Lady, it is impossible not to see 
that he loves, adores you, with a passion only too 
deep for utterance !" 

The lady sighed her assent to a declaration 
which, in truth, she herself could not doubt, and 
her attendant continued : — " And then, only con- 
trast his conduct with that of the prince, who, 
forsooth, pursues his travels, and visits foreign 
towns and countries, up to the very moment of his 
union. Why, Lady, if he were a real lover he 
would seek in you the only shrine worthy of his 
pilgrimage, and long ere this would have been at 
your feet. Trust me, sweet Isidora, your only 
course is to reject your cold and stately lover, and 
receive his humble, but more ardent rival." 

The lady felt the force of the advice, but re- 
gretted her inability to follow it. " Ah, Teresina, 
in another sphere of life such a course were pos- 
sible, but in my station it is not even to be con- 
templated. Reasons of policy and state, my girl, 
which thou knowest not of, compel me to the 
sacrifice ; and, fatal as it is, it must, it shall, alas ! 
be made :" and she buried her lovely countenance 
in her hands, and wept bitterly. 

" 'Tis true," said Teresina mournfully, " I know 
nought of politics, but I think they can have no- 
thing to do with the heart ; and my lady will excuse 
my saying that, if such sacrifices be the conditions 



IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 147 

of greatness, I desire it not. Wouldn't give up 
my Geronymo to be a princess to-morrow, not I !" 
and she tossed her pretty head again with the same 
magnanimity as before. 

And here let us pause to reflect, for a moment only, 
on the distribution of happiness which Providence 
kindly allots to its creatures, and which compen- 
sates in many stations of life, for advantages not 
possessed in others; so that the condition of its 
creatures is mercifully rendered far more equal than 
they themselves are inclined to suppose. Rank 
and wealth and station, we well know, far from 
securing their possessor from misery or suffering, 
often impose a greater burden of affliction ; the 
halls of wealth and grandeur are too often the 
abodes of misery and anguish, and the raiment of 
purple and fine linen, only the shroud which conceals 
a lacerated bosom, and a breaking heart ! Of all 
the offerings which the elevated and the noble are 
called on to make at the shrine of expediency, 
there is none so costly, so fatal, as that which com- 
pels them to give up the tenderest affections of 
the heart, the most hallowed feelings of attachment 
and of love, to motives of mere policy ; since, in too 
many instances, the sacrifice is made not with the 
consciousness that happiness will be increased by 
such a step, but that the, certain result will be the 
destruction of the noblest hopes, the most exalted 
h 2 



148 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

feelings, and the most pure and perfect enjoyments 
of which our nature is susceptible, and which are 
all yielded up as an offering to rank, or wealth, or 
fashion, or any of the gilded idols which the 
tyrant society has chosen to set up ! 

The period fixed for the marriage of the prin- 
cess now drew rapidly near, the preparations were 
all but completed— the picture all but finished. 
The painter saw but a few more interviews before 
him, ere his work would be terminated, and him- 
self dismissed. Their intercourse continued as be- 
fore, marked by the same ardour of innate feeling, 
but the same outward respect, which is perhaps 
the most natural and appropriate demeanour of 
real but concealed affection. Once, and once only, 
in their later meetings, did the lady Isidora allude 
to one whom she so powerfully and mournfully felt 
to be his rival. It was one morning, when among 
other matters with which he was charged by Count 
Ricci, he brought a letter from the prince. The 
missive was dated from Naples, where he was then 
staying on his travels, was elegantly but coldly 
written, and, amid other compliments, expressed a 
hope that the artist to whom he had entrusted the 
portrait of his bride, was neither negligent nor 
unfitted for the task; and concluded with the 
common-place wish that the time would speedily 
arrive when he might hasten to throw himself at 



1L RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 149 

the feet of the lovely original, and claim her as his 
own. Donna Isidora read to the artist that part 
of the letter which related to himself, but the 
theme was evidently any thing but pleasing ; he 
testified a degree of uneasiness which he had never 
before betrayed ; and the subject, painful to both, 
was speedily dropped, nor was it again renewed, 

A few questions, however, she could not refrain 
from asking :— " The prince speaks of you in terms 
of interest, Signor," was her first remark. 

" His Highness does me too much honour/' was 
the cold and formal reply. 

" You appear to have been the favourite — the 
companion of the prince," she added inquiringly. 

" I have been so honoured, Lady," he answered. 
" In his travels I have visited with him the fairest 
scenes of nature ; and in war we have shared the 
same tent, partaken of the same fare, and braved 
the same dangers together." 

" Come, tell me all about the prince," said 
Isidora, forcing a smile to her sweet, sad features 
as she spoke. " Is he handsome — is he like your- 
self—is he popular — is he beloved ? " 

But a glow of displeasure, as at the mention 
of a rival's name, suffused the brow of the young 
Italian, as he submissively but firmly desired to 
be excused the description. " The lady would 
herself appreciate the delicacy of his situation, — 



150 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

the duty he owed to his prince, his employer, his 
benefactor, would prevent him from complying 
with her wishes, and performing an office which, 
under other circumstances, would have been a 
task of most agreeable kind." Isidora readily 
complied with his desire, for the theme was as 
little agreeable to her as to himself, The portrait 
was now in fact finished, and he respectfully inti- 
mated, that the present would be the last time 
he need intrude on her presence. She turned 
pale for a moment at the announcement, and with 
all the anxiety of affection, found it impossible 
to contemplate the immediate separation from 
a being to whom she could not but feel that she 
was irrevocably attached, As he placed before 
her the finished, the splendid specimen of his art, 
which glowed with all but the beauty and bright- 
ness of its original, she endeavoured to discover 
some cause of delay, some excuse for another 
visit— a feature which needed alteration — an ex- 
pression which required improvement, but in vain. 
He respectfully, but strongly pointed out the 
impossibility or inexpediency of the changes she 
proposed, and, perhaps flatteringly, declared that 
the portrait, in this respect at least, bore a resem- 
blance to the original, that to alter would be to 
injure, but could not be to improve it. 

" Flatterer," she playfully and sweetly said ; 



IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 151 

"you are spoiled, Signor Artist, and have been long 
enough at court, I perceive, to have become a 
courtier. But, as a last request, come to-morrow ; 
I ma3 T , in the interval, discover yet some improve- 
ment, which escapes me at this moment ; and now 
I look again, methinks a tint more of warmth 
to the cheek, a thought more of fire to the eye, 
and the picture will be Isidora's self. Addio, till 
to-morrow at noon." She waved her hand in sign 
of departure, and ere she could withdraw it, the 
painter had seized those marble fingers, and sink- 
ing on his knee, pressed them for an instant to 
his lips, and left the apartment. 

The morning arrived — the hour of noon came 
and went, yet brought no tidings of the artist. 
After some time, however, a page of Count Ricci's 
was announced with a letter. It was from the 
painter, and was dated the evening before. He 
briefly excused his absence, for he was about to 
leave the city, and the adieu he had just taken 
was his last. On returning to the Palazzo, he 
found a fresh courier had come in, stating that 
the prince would arrive on that day week, three 
days prior to the nuptials. The portrait being 
finished, his farther presence was unnecessary; 
Count Ricci would kindly take charge of the pic- 
ture, and deliver it to the prince. 



152 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

" And when does the Signor Artist leave ?" asked 
the princess. 

" He departed, please your Highness, last even- 
ing," was the boy's reply. 

And he was then gone, — he for whom she had 
conceived so strong, so unalterable an affection. 
No more should she see that endeared form and 
face ; no more hear that beloved voice ; no more 
be blessed with the sympathies of that mind for 
which alone she could have wished to live and 
be happy ! Would that she had never seen— 
never known him ; or that they had been equals 
in society, no matter in what condition, since 
for his dear sake she would willingly, gladly, 
have exchanged the crown for the cottage ; and 
rank and splendour for obscurity or want, if only 
shared with him. But regret was unavailing, and 
she wept the more when she thought how useless 
it was to weep ! 

Day after day passed on, and as the dreaded 
period of her nuptials hastened with them, she felt 
only increased repugnance to the deed. Her 
health sank beneath the suffering, and she became 
an inmate of her chamber, attended by her mai- 
dens, w r ho never left her side. Three days prior 
to the ceremony the prince made his entry into 
Milan. The whole city rang with admiration of 



IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 153 

the splendour of his equipages, the manly beauty 
of his form and face, his liberality, his munificence. 
As if in cruel, but of course unconscious mockery, 
the procession passed under the windows of her 
palace, and the shouts of the multitude reached the 
couch of the suffering girl! Scarcely arrived at 
the palazzo of his ambassador, the prince sent a 
message, requesting permission to throw himself 
at her feet ; adding, that he had received her por- 
trait, was delighted w T ith its attractions, and longed 
only to clasp the fairer original in his arms. But 
the intimation aroused every painful feeling of 
her soul, and she would not, she could not see 
him, but dispatched a message, requesting to be 
excused on the score of ill-health. Overpowered 
with despair, she now, as a last resource, sent for 
her father, and declared her unwillingness, her 
inability to accept the prince as her husband. The 
duke received the declaration as the coyness of 
a timid girl, regretted her indisposition, and hoped 
that returning health would bring renovated spi- 
rits and a sense of duty. Meantime he would 
send father Jerome, her confessor, to advise and 
console her. And the good father, who had writ- 
ten on the Seven Cardinal Virtues, seven folio 
volumes, each bigger than the other, came and 
read her a homily, three hours long, on the story 
of Jephtha's daughter, and in reply she could only 
h3 



154 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

weep ! The day before her nuptials, finding her 
repugnance insurmountable, she sent again to her 
parent, and again implored to be released from the 
dreaded engagement. Her father, though a 
prince, was a father still ; he knew that gentle- 
ness and persuasion were likely to be the strongest 
inducements with the noble mind of his daughter, 
and he accordingly represented to her the inex- 
pediency, nay, the impossibility, of refusing to 
fulfil the contract which had been entered into 
on her behalf, and with her entire consent. Had 
she indeed, at an earlier period, testified her objec- 
tions, it might have been possible, though with 
much difficulty, to have released her from the 
necessity ; but now that matters had gone so far, 
the refusal of her hand, in itself a breach of 
good faith, would be regarded an additional 
insult by the jealous and haughty Florentines; 
her marriage, considered as the bond of peace, 
would be converted into the occasion of discord ; 
hostility and warfare would be the result; and 
would she, idolized as she was by all classes, change 
herself into an object of hatred, by lighting up 
the flames of war, and plunging her country in 
carnage and in blood? She shuddered at the pic- 
ture thus portrayed, and mournfully assented to 
the declaration of her father, that no step remained 
but to acquiesce in the projected union. One last 



IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 155 

resource was left, however, wliich the ingenuity, 
the tact of woman only could have suggested. She 
resolved to appeal herself to the prince, to her 
future husband ; to avow all to him, and to invoke 
his pity on one so unhappy, so unfitted to bring 
happiness to him. 

Accordingly she hastily committed to paper a 
statement of her unhappy position ; plainly avowed 
that the painter whom he had commissioned to take 
her portrait, had won her affections ; carefully 
absolved the artist from all share in the offence, 
which she attributed only to herself ; and, finally, 
implored him, by every feeling of mercy, of gene- 
rosity, and pity, to withdraw his pretensions, and 
not urge a union which would only entail misery 
on both. But what was her horror, her indig- 
nation, her despair, when she received what she 
could not but consider as the most heartless, the 
most unfeeling, the most ungenerous reply that, 
under such circumstances^ man could offer to 
woman ! 

It was certainly conceived in a tone of levity, ill 
adapted to the circumstances of the case. In the 
first place, he regretted that he could not congra- 
tulate the princess on the choice she had made, of 
one so every way unequal to herself ; he moreover 
was pained to find that he had already a rival ; but 
thanked her, at the same time, for the candour 



156 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

which had induced her to unfold his name and cir- 
cumstances, since he should have to deal with so 
ungrateful a rival, whose future attempts he should 
however well know how to frustrate. But the con- 
clusion was the most unfeeling part of the missive, 
and rankled deepest in her soul : he again deplored 
the preference shown to another, and unfeelingly 
observed, that though he was not a painter, but 
only a prince, he hoped notwithstanding to win her 
favour and her love ; and finished by lamenting 
that it was impossible for him to comply with her 
wish, and that he must expect to meet her on the 
morrow at the altar, and claim her according to 
every most solemn engagement, as his own affianced 
bride. 

" Unfeeling, ungenerous being ! " exclaimed the 
hapless Isidora ; " what a nature is thine ! — why 
add insult to injury ; why lacerate the heart thou 
hast so deeply pierced ? But," she added, collect- 
ing all the energy of her character, " the will of his 
Highness shall be obeyed ; I will meet him at the 
altar, and will present him with that worst, most 
fatal of gifts — a hand without a heart. Let him 
take it if he will ! " 

Early next morning she arose, and was attired by 
her attendant maidens. But what a contrast was 
presented between her aspect and her attire ! The 
ornaments and jewels which but a few weeks before 



IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 157 

had engaged all her attention, were now disre- 
garded, as useless, idle mockeries of her unhappy 
condition. Her robes were less white than her 
pale, sad face ; her pearls and jewels less pure than 
her still bright and beauteous, but tear-fraught 
eyes ; and she bent, hid from all observation, be- 
neath the weight of her attire, and the large folds 
of the cumbrous veil, which completely shrouded 
her sw T eet features, and stifled her sobs and sighs ! 
She was led mechanically to her carriage, and 
thence to the altar, where the prince already 
aw r aited her. To the acclamations of the people, 
the benedictions of her friends, the involuntary 
admiration of the spectators, she paid no attention, 
but stood at the shrine like a lamb at the sacrifice, 
waiting the blow that was to deprive her of exist- 
ence. The ceremony commenced, went on, was 
concluded, without a token of animation or interest 
on her part ; nor did the prince condescend to utter 
a word, or even cast a look, towards his victim, 
till the conclusion of the service, when he hasted 
eagerly, and almost rudely, to claim the privilege 
of a bridegroom, and to imprint a kiss on the lips 
of the sorrowing bride. He quickly raised the 
veil which shrouded her sweet, sad features, and 
was about to imprint his salutation on her lips, 
when she opened her weeping eyes, and saw- 
yes ! — no ! — -yes, it was the painter in the prince, 



158 IL RITRATTO DEL PITTORE. 

who claimed his well-won prize. " For he it was, 
Eccelenza" added my informant, " who, in the 
guise of a painter, had sought and won his lady's 
love. So they were married, you see, at last, and 
lived long and happily. The prince was a great 
patron of the arts, and a gran pittore himself, and 
he painted many fine pictures ; but his favourite task 
was ever to copy the features of his beloved wife, 
of whom he drew various portraits, but none was 
so like or so much prized by herself as that which 
he took when he won her love, and which is called 
' II Ritratto del Pittore,' the Painter's Portrait 
of the Bride. 



" But, Santa Virgine ! JEccelenza, you are all 
but asleep ! " 



TOY OF THE GIANT'S CHILD. 

From the German of Chamisso. c Tribute. ) 



Burg Niedeck is a mountain in Alsace, high and strong. 
Where once a noble castle stood — -the giants held it long ; 
Its very ruins now are lost, its site is waste and lone, 
And if ye seek the giants there, they all are dead and 



gone ! 



The giant's daughter once came forth, the castle gate 

before, 
And played with all a child's delight beside her father's 

door ; 
Then sauntering down the precipice the girl did gladly 

To see perchance how matters went in the little world 
below ! 

With few and easy steps she passed the mountain and 
the wood, 

At length near Haslach, at the place where dwelt man- 
kind she stood ; 

And many a town and village fair, and many a field so 
green, 

Before her wond'ring eyes appeared a strange and curious 
scene ! 



160 TOY OF THE GIANT'S CHILD. 

And as she gazed, in wonder lost, on all the scene 

around, 
She saw a peasant at her feet, a-tilling of the ground ; 
The little creature crawled about so slowly here and 

there, 
And, lighted by the morning sun, his plough shone bright 

and fair. 

" O pretty plaything ! " cried the child, " I'll take thee 

home with me," 
Then with her infant hands she spreads her kerchief on 

her knee, 
And cradling horse and man and plough so gently on 

her arm, 
She bore them home all cautiously, afraid to do them 

harm ! 

She hastes with joyous steps and glad (we know what 

children are), 
And spying soon her father out, she shouted from afar ; 
" O father, dearest father, such a plaything I have 

found, 
" I never saw so fair a one on our own mountain 

ground ! " 

Her father sat at table then, and drank his wine so mild, 

And smiling with a parent's smile, he asks the happy 
child, 

" What struggling creature hast thou brought so care- 
fully to me ; 

" Thou leaps t for very joy, my girl ; come, open, let us 
see!" 



TOY OF THE GIANT'S CHILD. 161 

She opes her kerchief cautiously, and gladly, you may 

deem, 
And shows her eager sire the plough, the peasant, and 

his team ; 
And when she placed before his sight the new-found 

pretty toy, 
She clasped her hands, and screamed aloud, and cried for 

very joy ! 

But her father looked quite seriously, and shaking slow 

his head, 
;; What hast thou brought me here, my girl? this is no 

toy," he said ; 
" Go, take it quickly back again, and put it down below : 
" The peasant is no plaything, child ; how couldst thou 

think him so ? — 

" So go, without a sigh or sob, and do my will," he 

said ; 
" For know, without the peasant, girl, we none of us 

had bread : 
" Tis from the peasant's hardy stock the race of giants 

are ; 
" The peasant is no plaything, child ; no, God forbid he 

were ! " 



SKETCH OF THE HEBREW LANGUAGE 
AND LITERATURE; 



THE SUBSTANCE OF A PAPER READ AT THE CONVERSAZIONE 
OF THE SUSSEX ROYAL INSTITUTION. 



The origin of the Hebrew language is veiled 
in obscurity and distance ; and though some phi- 
lologists,- — those of Germany in particular, with 
their accustomed perseverance, — have endeavoured 
to trace its rise, it is to be apprehended that their 
attempts will be found unsatisfactory, and that no 
human efforts have hitherto availed to reach the 
source whence flows the pure and sacred tongue. 
There is, however, reason for supposing that it is not 
the language spoken by the earliest Hebrews, though 
it presents such peculiar characteristics, and bears 
internal evidence of such extreme antiquity, as 
to entitle it to all the veneration and respect due 
to a highly ancient and a parent tongue. Among 
those features which bespeak its remote origin, 
may be reckoned the hieroglyphic names of its 
alphabet, one letter being termed a house, another 



SKETCH OF THE HEBREW LANGUAGE. 163 

a door, another an eye, another a camel, &c. from 
their presumed resemblance to these objects. This 
is evidently a mark of very ancient origin, since 
it may be regarded as denoting the transition from 
hieroglyphics to written characters ; and it is pos- 
sible that some, if not the whole of the names of 
the letters whose appellations are thus significant, 
may have been adopted during the sojourn of the 
Israelites in Egypt, and have been suggested by 
the hieroglyphics so generally in use among that 
people. Another instance of its ancient date is 
afforded by the comparative poverty of the tongue, 
and the small number of its nouns and roots, a 
circumstance alike indicative of a remote sera ; 
since in an early state of society, when the wants 
of man, as well as his ideas, are limited and few, 
a corresponding paucity of terms is all that is 
required to express them; while it is only in a 
more advanced stage, when civilization has mul- 
tiplied his wants and expanded his thoughts, that 
his words, like his necessities and his sentiments, 
become extended and increased. The grammatical 
structure of the Hebrew is well known to be 
proportionately simple, and its rules few and plain, 
though its exceptions and details are somewhat 
numerous and important. Like most of the other 
Oriental languages it has no vowels, as letters, 
these being indicated by points, which in all but 



164 SKETCH OF THE HEBREW 

two instances are placed below the letters them- 
selves. The rest of the alphabetic signs are di- 
vided into radicals, those which constitute the 
roots; and serviles, those which form the deri- 
vative words. With regard to the study of the 
language, it must be acknowledged that the mode 
of learning it with the points, which however is by- 
far the more difficult, is certainly the most satis- 
factory ; indeed, a critical and accurate knowledge 
is not to be attained without an acquaintance 
with the vowel points. But to learn it in the 
manner recommended by the erudite Parkhurst, 
without points, is well known to be an extremely 
easy task; the whole grammar is comprised by 
him in one quarto page, and it is the dictum of 
that learned and excellent man, that " the appli- 
cation of a few months will enable the student to 
read in the original, with ease and delight, most 
parts of the Holy Scriptures :" a very slight sacri- 
fice of time and attention, it will doubtless be con- 
fessed, compared with the inestimable advantage 
of deriving the waters of truth pure from their 
sacred fountains. The study of Hebrew has been 
so fully eulogized by some of the most distin- 
guished writers and exalted men, that it would 
be all but impertinent to obtrude any observations ; 
but with the reader's permission, amid a variety 
of similar panegerics, we will render from the 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 165 

Latin the beautiful and affecting tribute of the 
learned Buxtorf ; - — " O study," he exclaims, 
(( truly noble ! O pursuit, exalted above all praise, 
by which we are enabled to converse in the same 
tongue with God, with holy angels, with patriarchs 
and prophets, and to explain the mind of God 
from the very tongue of God, faithfully to our 
fellow men !" 

We will now ascend from the consideration of 
the Hebrew language to that of the Hebrew Scrip- 
tures, and offer some few and passing remarks 
illustrative of the study of the sacred records, a 
learning highly valuable from its philological in- 
terest, independently of other and higher considera- 
tions. And if, as who can doubt, the aphorism of 
Lord Bacon be true, and if a study is to be valued, 
not as " an exercise of the intellect," but as " a 
discipline of humanity," what exercise, we may 
ask f can be so exalting to the mind, what dis- 
cipline so purifying, so chastening to the feelings, 
as this most elevating of all studies, this most 
instructive of all contemplations ? 

And here, following the natural order of the 
Scriptures themselves, we shall have occasion first 
to allude to the Mosaic account of the creation, 
and to compare its statements with the discovery 
of modern science. The subject is obviously one 
of considerable importance, and has excited much 



166 SKETCH OF THE HEBREW 

anxiety in many inquiring minds; for while it 
is found impossible, on the one hand, to resist the 
convictions which are forced on the mind by the 
investigations of science, it is also earnestly to be 
desired, that these discoveries and their results 
should not contradict, but rather should agree 
with those records to which we have been taught, 
from our earliest years, to look as our best in- 
structors in this life, our only guides to that which 
is to come ! But all the difficulties which may 
be felt or fancied on the subject will vanish, if we 
merely reflect, that while the general facts nar- 
rated in the Mosaic records of the Creation, are 
strictly in accordance with the first principles of 
science in theory, and the discoveries of modern 
philosophy in practice ; the details of Scripture 
on this subject cannot but be regarded as popular 
rather than scientific, and as calculated for a liberal 
and extended, rather than a strictly literal inter- 
pretation. And thus that while the declaration 
of Moses, that the earth was without form and 
void, (or waste, as the Hebrew term bohu has 
sometimes been rendered), strictly accords not only 
with the chaos recorded by the traditions of classic 
antiquity, but also with the investigations and dis- 
coveries of modern philosophers, from the time 
of a Leibnitz or a Werner, to that of a Buckland, 
a Lyell, or a Mantell, the account of the operations 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 167 

by which the change from this state to that of fertility 
and order were effected, is general and popular, 
rather than strictly and severely philosophical. 
In support of the view which we have ventured to 
recommend, let us for a moment contemplate the 
peculiar circumstances under which the Mosaic 
dispensation was revealed. After a long period 
of captivity, suffering, and oppression, we are 
taught that the Israelites were at length rescued 
from their bondage, and under the guidance of 
Moses, and the protection of the Deity, were de- 
livered from thraldom, and brought into a state 
of comparative ease and enjoyment. One of the 
first cares of this extraordinary man, whom the 
Almighty in his wisdom raised up to lead and 
direct his chosen people, was to correct those 
tendencies to idolatry and superstition, to which, 
naturally prone themselves, they had been farther 
led by the example of their lords — -the Egyptians. 
To turn then the Israelites from these idols, the 
worship of which they had learned from that peo- 
ple; to teach them that, instead of worshipping 
these unmeaning or disgusting objects, w^hich that 
singular but idolatrous nation regarded with reli- 
gious awe ; to instruct them that, instead of 
bowing to cats and birds, and apes and monkeys, 
and plants and weeds, their duty was to believe 
in and adore one great First Cause— one Supreme 



168 SKETCH OF THE HEBREW 

Being — - one Jehovah, who formed not only 
these inferior creatures, but the heavens, the 
earth, the seas, and all that they contain; this 
was the great end and aim of the Hebrew legis- 
lator, prophet, and sage, who announced to the 
wondering and credulous people the new and im- 
portant truth that, — " In the beginning God 
created the heavens and the earth," &c. The 
conclusion that the Scriptures here require an 
extended, rather than a limited explanation, is 
farther borne out by the fact, that a strict ad- 
herence to the letter of the text, if persisted in, 
would involve difficulties even greater than those 
resulting from a freer interpretation, and would 
have the effect of rendering the sacred narrative 
inconsistent, not only with scientific truth, but 
even with itself. When we read of light being 
created before those bodies whose office it is to 
dispense light; or observe that the day and 
night are mentioned as prevailing alternately, 
while it is not till the fourth day that we read 
of the creation of those luminaries which were 
designed expressly — " the greater light to rule 
the day, and the lesser light to rule the night;" 
we cannot but be struck with the inadequacy 
of a strictly, literal understanding of the sacred 
records, and the necessity of a more com- 
prehensive interpretation. And here we may 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 169 

observe, that a forced interpretation of the Scrip- 
tures, or a straining of words to suit a particular 
hypothesis, is a practice which cannot be too 
severely discountenanced, as tending to open the 
way for license the most unlimited, and to degrade 
and destroy the integrity of scripture, and the autho- 
rity which it is calculated to inspire. The word 
yom means day in the Hebrew, as clearly as day 
does in our own ; and all attempts to wrest these 
simple roots into other meanings must be regarded 
as opposed alike to philology and revelation . Nor 
will the circumstance that the details of the Mosaic 
account of the creation are of a popular rather 
than a scientific character, be found to weaken the 
authority of the Scriptures, or to lower our ideas 
of the wisdom and power of the great Creator. 
Such a supposition will, on the contrary, only 
exalt our admiration of Omniscience, since it ex- 
hibits that beautiful adaptation of the means to 
the end, which is displayed alike in the moral as 
in the natural world. Had it been a part of the 
Divine purpose to have revealed to the Hebrew 
nation the scientific mysteries of nature, and all 
the secrets of creation ; this purpose would have 
been as easy of accomplishment as any other won- 
der of Almighty power: for instance, as that 
great moral phenomenon existing at the present 
day, the preservation of the Hebrews as a distinct 

i 



170 SKETCH OF THE HEBREW 

people unmixed with all around them. But we 
shall perceive in this arrangement not a want of 
prescience and foresight, but a depth and extent 
of both which call for our strongest powers of 
wonder and adoration. If, for instance, it had been 
a part of the Divine revelation to have unfolded to 
the Hebrew nation the laws and operations of 
those principles of science which first created the 
universe, and have since regulated its course ; and 
to have revealed to them the wonders of astro- 
nomy, meteorology, geology, and other kindred 
sciences ; such a revelation would have been per- 
fectly easy of accomplishment, since He who made 
these wonders could without difficulty have ex- 
plained them, as easily at that moment, as at the 
present, by a Moses as by a Newton; besides 
which, many of these phenomena, — for instance, 
those of astronomy,— must have been studied by 
Moses while in Egypt, for it is perfectly ascer- 
tained that the Egyptians were acquainted with 
that science, and the true system of the universe ; 
and we are expressly informed that " Moses was 
learned in all the learning of the Egyptians." But 
the wisdom of Omniscience adopted a course indi- 
cative of a far more profound and intimate know- 
ledge of human nature, the work of its own 
hands. It is a maxim as old as philosophy itself, 
that every good, to be really such, must be in 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 171 

proportion to the capacity of its recipient ; and 
though it would have been perfectly within the 
scope of Divine knowledge and power to have 
revealed through Moses the arcana of science, yet 
such a revelation would have been totally unfitted 
for a rude, and ignorant, and idolatrous people ; 
such as the Hebrews were. That prophet, who 
would have endeavoured to persuade a super- 
stitious and prejudiced community out of the 
evidence of their own senses, and have told them 
that the sun, which they saw daily going round the 
earth, in fact stood still, and that it was the earth 
which moved around the sun ; that instructed who 
announced an assertion so startling, and apparently 
so incredible and false, would, in all probability, 
have incurred the rejection both of himself and 
his mission. And with reference to the creation 
of the world in six days, may not an inquirer 
be permitted to assume, that when it was the 
intention of Divine wisdom to establish and sanc- 
tify, to the use and enjoyment of man, the bene- 
volent and enlightened institution of the Sabbath ; 
which in itself would be sufficient to exalt the 
Mosaic and Christian dispensations above all Pagan 
systems; which is a boon and blessing not only 
to man, but to the domestic animals whom he 
employs as assistants in his labours ; but which, like 
all his advantages, he is ever prone to desecrate and 

i 2 



172 SKETCH OF THE HEBREW 

abuse ; may we not assume that, in order to 
stamp a greater sanctity on this ordinance, the 
work of the Creator was figuratively divided into six 
days, and the seventh allotted as the supposed 
period of rest, with a view to impose a greater 
sanctity on the ordinance, and to deter man from 
profaning that rest which had been hallowed to his 
enjoyment by the previous repose of his Creator? 
Other arguments might be urged, drawn from kin- 
dred sciences,- — astronomy, meteorology, geology, 
would afford proofs of the assumption, — but enough 
has perhaps been stated to establish the position 
laid down at the commencement, that while the 
grand principles of creation, as described in the 
sacred record, are correct and just, and perfectly 
reconcilable with the facts of modern philosophy 
and science ; the details regarding these principles, 
and the mode by which they were brought into 
operation, are of a popular rather than a scientific 
nature, and were intended not so much for the 
instruction of a section of philosophers, or for 
the enlightenment of men of science, as for the 
peculiar community to whom they were originally 
revealed. 

To proceed from the view of isolated passages 
and facts, to a consideration of the Scriptures re- 
garded as a whole, it may be expedient to point 
out two or three particulars, which we shall find 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 173 

of considerable assistance in perusing the sacred 
volume. These remarks are of little import in them- 
selves, and are so well known to biblical scholars, 
that an apology is due to these last for mentioning 
matters which to them are so familiar, but which 
are designed for the information of those to whom 
they may not be so perfectly known. The first 
remark is, that the English reader of our transla- 
tion of the Bible will derive much advantage from 
consulting those renderings of the text which are 
occasionally placed in the margin. These will not 
unfrequently be found preferable to the meaning 
given in the text itself; while they will often, from 
their greater fidelity, or their very variety, afford 
a new and interesting interpretation. Next, the 
reader is not always aware that those words which 
in our version are printed in italics, are wanting 
in the original, and are wholly supplied by the 
conjectures of the translator, — the poverty of the 
Hebrew language, as before observed, being such 
that it is content with a few textual words only, 
leaving the rest to be supplied by the imagination 
or judgment of the reader. And it will be found 
both a pleasant and a profitable exercise, if we 
occasionally make it a practice to read the Bible, 
omitting every word which is printed in italics, 
and repeating those only which are inserted in the 
usual type ; we shall thus be struck in a very 



174 SKETCH OF THE HEBREW 

forcible manner with the brevity and power of the 
Hebrew original. We shall farther find a source of 
considerable instruction in a part of the sacred 
records frequently overlooked ; the apocryphal 
writings, which, though professedly devoid of the 
authority of the inspired portions, are second only 
to those in wisdom and truth. Goethe, the German 
writer, is indebted to them for many brilliant 
ideas ; and the conclusion of the Book of Mac- 
cabees is one of the most skilful apologies in the 
whole circle of letters. " If," the writer observes, 
" I have done well, and as is fitting the story, it is 
that which I have desired ; but if slenderly and 
meanly, it is that which I could attain unto :" an 
appeal scarcely to be surpassed for delicacy and 
acumen. 

It may be necessary here to offer some remarks 
on the subject of our present translation of the 
Scriptures, which it must be confessed is occasion- 
ally imperfect, so that in some of the passages 
which will hereafter be cited, it will be necessary 
to differ from the received version. The defects of 
our translation, at its first appearance, consisted 
in the circumstance that it was not so much an 
original translation, as a collation from previous 
versions, in Dutch, and German, and English ; and 
since it is obvious that the two hundred years which 
have elapsed since its production, have thrown 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 175 

much light on Oriental subjects, which ought no 
longer to be withheld from the sacred volume, 
a new translation is certainly to be desired. 
It may, however, be satisfactory to the English 
reader to know, that its deficiencies are such as by 
no means affect any matters either of doctrine, of 
faith, or of practice, and that he may safely follow 
it as a guide for this life, and that which is to 
come. 

The poetry of the Hebrews is of a peculiar 
nature, combining with that amplification, exagger- 
ation, and extension, which constitute the chief 
features of the poetry of the Orientals, various qua- 
lities totally distinct from those of the other nations 
of the East. Its most striking attributes are found 
in its intensity, and its proneness to repetition. 
The Hebrew bard, not satisfied with representing 
an image, a thought, or a feeling, in its merely 
natural and simple state, becomes elevated and 
sublimed with his subject, and exalts every object, 
every idea, every sensation, to almost the utmost 
degree of intensity; while not content with the 
single statement, however powerful in itself, and 
however strongly enforced ; he invariably repeats 
these images, and if possible with still greater fer- 
vour. The Hebrew poetry thus consists one-half of 
repetition; and it is impossible to examine any 



176 SKETCH OF THE HEBREW 

verse of Job, or of the Psalms, or any of the poetry 
of holy writ, without at once discovering that the 
second part of the sentence is but the reiteration 
and amplification of the first. The poetic parts of 
the Scriptures are, as is well known, the Psalms, 
the Proverbs, and the book of Job, the Song of 
Solomon, and various lyrical pieces ; but on inves- 
tigation many poems will be found interspersed 
among the prose portions, which it may here be 
proper to enumerate. 

Among the most important of these are the 
speech of Lamech to his wives ; the blessings of 
Noah, of Isaac, and of Jacob ; the songs of Moses, 
of the Israelites, of Deborah, of the Hebrews ; the 
lamentations of David over Saul and over Abner ; 
the thanksgivings of Hannah, of Hezekiah, of 
Jonah, with various parables, &c, concluding with 
the prayer of Habakkuk, — in all comprising 
twenty-five minor poems. 

In calling attention to the poetic beauties of 
holy writ, the writer is aware that the Scriptures 
are given us for far higher purposes than merely 
for the admiration of our minds, or the grati- 
fication of our tastes ; yet he may possibly be 
excused for briefly calling attention to their excel- 
lence as compositions, since an appreciation of 
their merits can only increase, and cannot possibly 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 177 

diminish, our reverence for these holy records. 
These remarks will necessarily be brief and few, 
since the perfections of the sacred scriptures have 
been enforced by some of our ablest scholars and 
critics, and the beauties and sublimities of Hebrew 
poetry have employed the talents and called forth the 
admiration of a Buxtorf, a Lowth, a Kennicott, and 
a Doddridge. It is therefore only for a brief space 
that we will dwell on the general features of grace 
and of grandeur, of pathos and of power, which are 
observable throughout the whole of the sacred 
writings. But where shall we begin, and with what 
department of knowledge commence the eulogium 
of writers who have excelled almost in all ? Shall 
we cite them as historians ? — here they excel all 
others in those most important of all qualities, 
fidelity and truth. Charged with a divine mission, 
and strengthened by the consciousness of divine 
power, they were elevated beyond prejudice, 
they were unacquainted with partiality, and in the 
exercise of their sacred duty knew not fear even 
by name ! To the great and the mighty they 
found their way, and exclaimed to the dread ones 
of the earth in a voice of more than mortal power, 
" I have a message unto thee from God ! " To the 
guilty and voluptuous monarch on his throne they 
told a fearful tale of guilty gratification and mur- 
i S 



178 SKETCH OF THE HEBREW 

dered innocence ; and after the striking allegory 
of passion, injustice, and crime, they shouted in 
his startled ear, " Thou art the man !" Elevated 
beyond all weak and erring sympathy with human 
failings and imperfections, they spared not even 
the incidental faults of the enlightened and the 
good, but with unflinching determination of pur- 
pose, exposed, together with the faults of unwor- 
thier natures, the errors of the best, the 

" Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise!" 

and thus the wrath of Moses, the meekest of 
men; the passions and the crime of David, the 
man after God's own heart ; the folly and weak- 
ness of Solomon, the wisest of mankind ; are all 
displayed with a severity and truth which cannot 
but exalt the fidelity of the sacred beyond all 
comparison with that of the profane historians. 
Shall we next consider them as legislators, and 
contrast the benevolent and enlightened code of 
Moses with the rude and barbarous laws, or 
rather, it maybe said, the absence of all law, which 
characterised the social condition of contemporary 
nations ? Shall we point out the admirable features 
of humanity, not only to mankind, but to the brute 
creation, which so favourably distinguish the Mosaic 
economy from the codes of other states of the same 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 179 

sera ? Their periodical release of slaves, their 
years of jubilee, their division of property ; in par- 
ticular their humanity to the animal creation, which 
scarcely seems to have been deemed worthy a 
thought by other legislators, are all features of the 
theocratic democracy of Moses, which bespeak the 
divine wisdom, and benevolence, and love by which 
it was inspired. 

With regard to the writers of the Christian reve- 
lation, it may be observed, that the mantle of 
their fathers has fallen on them, and that much 
of the sublimity and beauty of the New Testament 
is derived from the inspiration of the Old. There 
is, however, one observance of the Hebrews, which 
is of so singular a character as to require peculiar 
allusion. The name of Jehovah having been re- 
vealed by the Almighty himself to Moses, is con- 
sidered by the Hebrews so sacred, that no induce- 
ment will prevail on them to pronounce, or even 
to write it. The term Adonai is used as an equiva- 
lent ; in writing it is indicated by abbreviating signs ; 
and it is remarked that our Saviour observes the 
same respect. This circumstance has given rise to 
the following lines : — 

There is a word, no mortal tongue 
May dare its mystic sounds combine ; 

Nor saint hath breathed, nor prophet sung 
That holiest of the names divine ! 



180 SKETCH OF THE HEBREW 

Nor may the finger of the scribe 

Presume that hallowed word to write ; 

Accurs'd alike from Israel's tribe 

Were he who dared that name indite ! 

Yet though nor lip nor pen may dare 

That name unspeakable impart ; 
'Tis ever breathed in secret prayer,— 

'Tis ever written on the heart ! 

If we next consider them as didactic writers; 
where shall we seek for moralists so wise and just 
as these holiest and best of instructers, who were 
themselves taught by no mere human knowledge, 
but were enlightened by the wisdom which cometh 
from above ? Shall we particularize the instance 
of Solomon, the most learned and instructive wri- 
ter of his age and time, who, amid his varied 
acquirements, attained the higher wisdom to per- 
ceive that these also were vanity : and who so 
affeetingly and mournfully teaches the insuffi- 
ciency of all human knowledge, by the painful 
declaration that, "in much learning there is 
much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge 
increaseth sorrow ?" Or lastly, rising to poetry, 
what book, what page, it may be said, of holy 
writ, but casts into shade all comparisons adduced 
from profane writers? Compared with the in- 
tense conceptions, fervent aspirations, and glowing 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 181 

descriptions of the Hebrew bards ; contrasted with 
their 

" Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn ;" 

how 7 powerless are the most vaunted images, 
the most admired sentiments, the most valued 
expressions of profane poets ! Shall we in- 
stance that sublime conception of Moses, which 
extorted the admiration of a classical critic, 
and induced Longinus to declare that no instance 
of the sublime equalled the expression of that 
Hebrew bard, who had recorded that " God said, 
Let there be light, and there was light ?" Or shall 
we proceed to the poetic portions of holy writ, — 
to those treasures of thought, and feeling, and 
expression, — which have so largely and so richly 
supplied modern writers ? They are, to bor- 
row the exquisite imagery of Isaiah, — they are, 
indeed, fires lighted on holy altars, from which 
later bards have taken live coals with which to 
touch, and sanctify, and inspire their lips. In all 
succeeding ages, poets have felt and owned the 
obligation. Milton gloried in acknowledging that 
the source of his inspiration was derived not alone 
from classic originals, but he informs us— 

" Chief, 
Thee, Zion, and the flowery streams beneath 
That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow, 
Nightly I visit." 



182 SKETCH OF THE HEBREW 

And the greatest bard of our own times, like 
Milton, has availed himself of the same inspiration, 
but, unlike Milton, has not often avowed it. Lord 
Byron has continually borrowed ideas from the 
Scriptures. The beautiful passage in " Childe 
Harold," where the poet utters the celebrated 
aspiration— 

" Would that the desert were my dwelling place, 
And one fair spirit were my minister, 

That I might all forget the human race, 
And hating nothing, love but only her ! " 

may be traced \ to the Bible. A thought 
similar to this had before been appropriated by 
Cowper, but was confessedly taken by him from 
Jeremiah, who also longs for " a lodge in the 
wilderness." One of the most striking passages in 
the Giaour is also borrowed from holy writ, and 
is derived from the death of Sisera in the Old Tes- 
tament. After describing the fall of the Turkish 
chief, Byron proceeds— 

" His mother looked from her window high, 
She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 

The pasture green beneath her eye ; 
She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 

'Tis twilight, sure his train is nigh. 

<T* -**v> y(& ifc ^ 

Why comes he not, his steeds are fleet ?" 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 183 

which is but an amplification of the passage : — - 
" The mother of Sisera looked out at a window, 
and cried through the lattice, Why are his chariot 
wheels so long in coming? why tarry the wheels 
of his chariot ?" 

The style of Dr. Johnson, strange as the asser- 
tion may appear, is less classical than Hebraic, 
for though his single words are Latinized, yet 
the construction of his style, the exact balancing 
of sentences, and the reiteration of the first part 
in the second, are peculiarities which I have named 
above as being familiar to every student of He- 
brew. The Germans have largely availed them- 
selves of the resources offered by the Scriptures, 
and owe to this practice much of the sublimity of 
their productions. And their greatest poets, from 
Klopstock to Goethe, have felt and acknowledged 
the source of their inspirations. 

But to hasten from these observations to the 
treasures of sacred writ, let us then select a very 
few instances only of the pathetic and the power- 
ful, the beautiful and the sublime, which occur 
throughout the sacred volume, and abound in par- 
ticular in the Psalms. Where in the whole circle 
of poetry shall we find so exquisite a lyric as the 
beautiful pastoral poem which attracted the admi- 
ration of Addison — the twenty-third Psalm, " The 
Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want ? " Or what 



184 SKETCH OF THE HEBREW 

uninspired poem could rival the sublimity of the 
hundred and thirty - ninth, where the Psalmist 
so beautifully and powerfully contrasts the weak- 
ness and imperfection of the mere human atom 
with the power and immensity of its Divine 
Creator ? Need we repeat the passage ; it is almost 
too familiar :— " Whither shall I go from thy 
Spirit, or whither shall I go from thy presence ? 
If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there ; if I 
make my bed in the grave, behold, thou art there ! 
If I take the wings of the morning, and flee to the 
uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall thy 
hand lead me, and thy right hand shall find me! 
If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me ; even 
the night shall be light about me. Yea, the dark- 
ness hideth not from thee ; but the night shineth 
as the day : the darkness and the light are both 
alike to thee ! " 

Not less, but if possible still more impressive 
and affecting, are the sublimities of Job, especially 
when, in the thirty-eighth chapter, the Almighty 
answering Job, inquires if he is acquainted with 
the mysteries of creation and of nature, or even 
with those of his own mind and heart. How 
beautiful is the confidence in the existence and 
power of the Saviour which is so appropriately 
chosen as a part of the burial service :— " I know 
that my Redeemer liveth!" How eloquent the 



LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. 185 

description of the great and awful change pro- 
duced by death, given in Ecclesiastes, where the 
decay of nature is represented in a succession 
of the most admirable and affecting images ; where 
we are taught to illustrate the feebleness of old 
age, that the grasshopper, one of the lightest of 
created beings, — the very grasshopper shall be a 
burden ; while to indicate the loss of sight, we are 
told, " they that look out at the windows shall be 
darkened;" and so on until "the silver cord is 
loosened ; the wheel broken at the cistern ;" and 
" the dust shall return to the earth as it was, and 
the spirit to the God who gave it!' ? 

But we might multiply instances which, after 
all, are probably familiar, though it is possible 
their very familiarity may occasion their beauties 
and sublimities to be often overlooked. And we 
will now close these imperfect observations with 
what may perhaps be considered the not inappro- 
priate citation of the very last metrical passage 
which occurs in the Old Testament, — the celebrated 
and beautiful prayer of Habakkuk, one of the 
most beautiful and affecting testimonies of resig- 
nation on record. 

" Though the fig-tree shall not blossom, 
Nor shall fruit be on the vines ; 
Though the produce of the olive shall fail, 
And the fields shall yield no food ; 



186 SKETCH OF THE HEBREW LANGUAGE. 

Though the flock shall be cut off from the fold, 

And no herd shall be left in the stall ; 

Yet I will rejoice in Jehovah ; 

I will be exceeding joyful in the God of my salvation !' 



THE OATH OF HANNIBAL, 

(tribute.) 



It is the hour of praise and prayer, 

In Carthage' holiest shrine ; 
And priests and augurs worship there, 

With pomp and rite divine ! 
And incense flings rich wreaths of smoke , 

And music blends its chime ; 
While Afric's sons the gods invoke, 

Own'd in that fiery clime ! 

And 'mid the pause of rite and song, 

A warrior chief draws nigh, 
And hasting through the priestly throng 

With ardent step and eye, 
He leads a stripling by the hand, 

The hope of all his line ; 
They reach the inmost fane — and stand 

Before its holiest shrine ! 

That aged warrior comes with joy, 

A fearful vow to make, 
And offers up his gallant boy 

For his lov'd country's sake ! 



188 THE OATH OF HANNIBAL. 

The youth an equal ardour shares, 
With equal courage glows ; 

And on his country's altars swears 
Hate to his country's foes ! 

He vows, while life's warm current flows 

Love to his natal home ; 
But deadly hate to all her foes, 

And deadliest far to Rome ! 
With fearless soul, and look severe, 

The youth hath pledg'd his truth ; 
And proudly calls on gods to hear, 

And men to mark the oath ! 

And did the youth obedience yield 

To what he swore that day ? 
Go ask at Thrasymenus' field, 

Or Cannae's fatal fray ! 
And long have Roman matrons wept, 

The oath he proffers now; — 
So deeply sworn — so truly kept, 

Is Hannibal's dark vow ! 



VISITS TO THE MANTELLIAN 
MUSEUM. 



No. II. 

Ascend we now to the upper apartments. The 
last cabinet which we inspected in the lower room, 
was designed to illustrate the Fauna and Flora of 
the chalk, and contained fuei, weeds, and plants, 
together with zoophytes, Crustacea, shells, and other 
relics of that formation ; the whole bearing conclu- 
sive evidence of the tropical nature of the climate 
in which they existed, and the extent and duration 
of the vast ocean by which they were deposited. The 
series is completed by the contents of two cases 
placed in the upper room, consisting of a collection 
of fish from the chalk, which are perfectly unrivalled 
and unique. They form the subject of the last 
livraison of the Recherches sur les Poissons Fossiles 
of Professor Agassiz, and are figured from drawings 
by a distinguished artist, Dinkel of Munich, whom 
the Professor employed for this object. The ar- 
rangement of M. Agassiz is well known to the 
scientific world: he divides the fossil fishes into 



190 VISITS TO THE 

four orders, according to the different form and 
appearance of the scales, — terming them Placoi- 
dians, Ganoidians, Ctenoidians, and Cydoidians, 
as the scales are characterised by a broad, a flat, 
a pectinated, or a circular appearance, The situ- 
ation in which they are discovered is most extra- 
ordinary, since they are found with their mouths 
extended and filled with chalk ; and one in par- 
ticular, ( Osmeroides Mantellii) a fish allied to the 
smelt, has the mouth open and filled with chalk, 
while the gills are expanded, the fins extended, and 
the body uncompressed, showing that the air-blad- 
der was inflated ; in other terms, that the animal 
was actually living, swimming, and breathing, at the 
period when it was suddenly arrested by the chalk 
in a fluid state, which first choked the creature, and 
then hardening and indurating around, preserved 
it in a fossil state. And there it lies amid its 
brethren of the deep ; so perfect a thing of stone, 
yet so nearly allied to life, that, like the victim 
of Eastern necromancy, it seems to await but 
the disenchantment of its spell, the waving of a 
hand — the breathing of a word — to start again 
into being, and renew its past existence. This re- 
markable phenomenon is explained, by conceiving 
that the chalky bed of the sea must have been 
broken up, and the chalk become so fused and 
melted as to have reduced the whole to a slimy, 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 191 

viscid state, like liquid plaster of Paris, so that 
when the fish attempted to respire they were choked 
by the admixture. The whole scene presents a 
Pompeii, or rather a Herculaneum of nature, 
where all the inhabitants have been suffocated by 
the irruption of the lava of the chalk ! A similar 
result is observed in marine volcanic out-bursts at 
the present day ; and when the island of Sabrina, 
in the Mediterranean, was erupted some years 
since, a quantity of fish were seen floating on the 
waters choked by the liquid mud. The appear- 
ance of many of these relics is painfully interest- 
ing:— here a struggling creature is seen writhing 
beneath its fate ; yonder the mouth is opened to 
its utmost span, gasping for vital air ; and here the 
fragile structure of the eye is preserved in all its 
delicacy of form and appearance. The manipu- 
lation of these objects deserves particular mention, 
and the dissecting and freeing them from their stony 
investment, has formed a task which has required 
the skill of the sculptor, united with the science of 
the anatomist. And their interest and value are 
increased by the fact, that in most cases the genus 
in all the species is extinct ; and that of all the 
fossil inhabitants of this ancient sea not one is in 
existence now ! 

Around the room are displayed objects asso- 
ciated with various geological aeras and formations, 



192 VISITS TO THE 

and elucidating many curious phenomena. Spe- 
cimens from the tertiary, the chalk, the wealden, 
the oolite, the lias, the coal, and the transition 
formations, occupy the shelves of various cabinets ; 
and a case of minerals appropriately closes the 
series by the illustrations it affords of the primary 
rocks. The fossils of the tertiary system, from the 
London clay of Bognor, offer an instructive and 
valuable commentary on that formation. A series 
of beautifully executed models, exhibiting the 
structure of the Palseotheria, presented by Cuvier, 
and elucidatory of his discoveries, serve to explain 
the contemporary deposites of the Paris basin. 
These creatures, as the scientific student is well 
aware, are of extinct genera and species, are 
allied to the tapir, rhinoceros, &c, and being found 
in marls, once the beds of rivers and lakes, are 
conceived, like those animals, to have lived and 
wallowed in marshes and lakes. Among the most 
interesting relics of this locality, splendid examples 
of the Nautilus abound. The beautiful structure 
of this singular shell—this animated bark — which 
still navigates the oceans of the tropics, is well 
known to the scientific reader, as is the no less 
celebrated history of its twin-creature, the Am- 
monite, which resembled the Nautilus in the 
power of filling the inner chambers of its cell with 
a peculiar fluid, and expelling it again, and thus 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 193 

sinking or rising at will, and sailing on the surface 
of the waters. Both are found in the most early 
formations, and proceed upwards to the chalk, 
where the Ammonite ceases to exist. In plainer 
terms, they were created at a very early period of 
the earth's history, and lived through various seas, 
till they arrived at that of the chalk, w T hen of the 
two, the one was taken and the other left ; the 
Ammonite was expunged from existence, while 
the Nautilus alone survives to the present day. 
This singular circumstance has given rise to the 
following lines, which Dr. Mantell honoured the 
author by introducing in one of his Lectures : — 

THE NAUTILUS AND THE AMMONITE. 

The Nautilus and the Ammonite, 

"Were launch'd in friendly strife ; 
Each sent to float, in its tiny boat. 

On the wide wild sea of life 1 

For each could swim on the ocean's brim, 
And when wearied its sails could furl ; 

And sink to sleep in the great sea deep, 
In its palace all of pearl ! 

And their 's w.£s a bliss, more fair than this, 

That we feel in our colder time ; 
For they were rife, in a tropic life, 

In a brighter, and better clime ! 

K 



194 VISITS TO THE 

They swam 'mid isles whose summer smiles 

No wintry winds annoy ; 
Whose groves are palm — whose air is balm — 

Where life is only joy ! 

They sailed all day through creek and bay, 

And traversed the ocean deep ; 
And at night they sank on a coral bank, 

In its fairy bowers to sleep ! 

And the monsters vast of ages past, 
They beheld in their ocean caves ; 

They saw them ride in their power and pride. 
And sink in their deep sea graves ! 

And hand in hand, from strand to strand, 
They sailed in mirth and glee ; 

These fairy shells, with their crystal cells, 
Twin creatures of the sea ! 

And they came at last, to a sea long past, 

But as they reached its shore, 
The Almighty's breath spoke out in death, 

And the Ammonite lived no more ! 

And the Nautilus now, in its shelly prow, 

As over the deep it strays ; 
Still seems to seek, in bay and creek, 

Its companion of other days ! 

And thus do we, in life's stormy sea, 
As from shore to shore we roam, 

While tempest-tost, seek the loved, the lost, 
But find them on earth no more ! 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 195 

Yet the hope how sweet, again to meet, 

As we look to a distant strand ; 
Where heart finds heart, and no more they part, 

Who meet in that better land ! 

The illustrations of the chalk are supplied by 
the beautiful ichthyolites, or fossil fish, which we 
have described ; those of the wealden, in this de- 
partment of the Museum, consist of an invaluable 
collection of its vegetable relics, which we have 
already characterised as being of tropical growth, 
and character, allied to the fern, the palm, the 
cane, and the bamboo. Among the gems of this 
cabinet is a splendid example of the Clathraria 
Lyellii, a plant allied to the Yucca ; with other 
specimens, in which the floral axis is displayed in a 
beautiful state of preservation. The only animal 
relic of this formation placed in this cabinet consists 
of a portion of the spinal column of the Hylaeosau- 
rus, very recently exhumed from the wealden strata. 
Another invaluable relic, appertaining to the same 
sera, is the fossil crocodile, discovered in 1835, 
near Swanage, in Dorsetshire, where some work- 
men, in splitting a block of stone, observing 
traces of bone, carefully preserved the severed 
portions, which proved to be the bones of a 
crocodile ; which, like the lizards of the Weald, 
having existed in the ancient streams of fresh 
water, and died and become decomposed; its osseous 
k 2 



196 VISITS TO THE 

fragments were rolled about by the stream until they 
were hurled into one heap, where they became 
converted into limestone by the operation de- 
scribed in our previous visit. The most important 
parts consist of a jaw, with two teeth singularly 
preserved, together with other teeth, bones of 
the pelvis, vertebrae, dermal plates, or bones for 
the support of the scales, &c. &c. &c. The speci- 
mens of the lias consist of a series of the relics 
of the Ichthyosaurus and Plesiosaurus, with a beau- 
tiful skeleton of the former, exhibiting the colossal 
eye, the fish-like paddles, the vertebrae, and the 
ribs most admirably preserved, though the body is 
bent almost double from some accidental cause, 
some pressure of the superincumbent strata, or 
some contortion of the animal itself in the act of 
dying. An adjoining cabinet contains recent ske- 
letons of Mammalia, birds, and reptiles, and other 
obj ec ts of comparative anatomy. In the upper range 
is placed a formidable array of tigers' sculls ; and 
among the skeletons, are those of the iguana, mo- 
nitor, crocodile, turtle, hedgehog, mole, and a splen- 
did wild swan. A miscellaneous collection of corals 
supply expositions of that singular realm of nature; 
and the mummy of a cat, holding a mouse by its 
tail, who having pursued her victim too far in 
the walls of an old house was jammed in, unable 
to advance or recede, and thus it is presumed 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 197 

perished of hunger, is not among the least curious 
objects which this case offers for observation. 

A room adjoining presents other illustrations, 
chiefly of the tertiary and chalk formations ; and 
the large testacea of the latter — the inoceramus, 
scaphite, hamite, and turrilite shells, are deservedly 
admired. The series of the records of nature is 
terminated by a beautiful model of the head of the 
Mosasaurus, or fossil animal of Maestricht, which, 
having been discovered in the limestone quarries 
of that town, shortly previous to the French 
Revolution, was captured, with the city, by the 
troops of the Republic, and conveyed to Paris, 
where it now remains. This, which is one of the 
most successful models of the relic ever executed, 
was presented by Baron Cuvier to Dr. Mantell. 
The animal itself, whose structure approaches that 
of the monitor lizard, is conceived to have been 
carnivorous ; the form of the caudal vertebrae an- 
nounces that its tail, which near its junction with 
the body was of a cylindrical form, was flattened at 
some distance from the trunk, into an oar-like 
shape, enabling it to stem the most agitated waters. 
Its vertebrae have been found in our chalk, and 
its teeth in North America; and from its relics 
having been discovered only in marine formations, 
it is conceived that, unlike the existing lizards, 
none of which are known to live in salt water, 



198 VISITS TO THE 

but perfectly in accordance with those which are 
extinct, such as the Ichthyosaur and Plesiosaur, 
the creature was marine, and possibly, like the 
former, entirely confined to the ocean. 

The same cabinet contains various gems of 
science: such are the fossil wing of a Neuropterous 
insect resembling that of the living Corydalis of 
Carolina, discovered by*Dr. Mantell, in a nodule of 
ironstone in Coalbrook Dale, Shropshire ; a leaflet 
of fern, with the parts of fructification in a fossil 
state ; together with a specimen of Nummulite 
rock, which, like so many other objects of natural 
interest, serves to illustrate the extraordinary anti- 
quity of nature contrasted with that of man ; for 
this rock, which is wholly composed of the shells 
of the Nummulite, is one of the latest of the ter- 
tiary rocks — in plainer terms, one of the latest 
rocks that Nature ever made ; while it is from this 
most modern of her works that man has constructed 
the most ancient of his, for the pyramids of Egypt 
are in part composed of this stone. 



Such is the collection of the records of Nature 
here presented to observation : let us next review 
the antiquities of man, if, indeed, we can apply 
the term to objects, the whole of which are but as 
yesterday compared with the age of Nature herself. 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 199 

Since several of the most important objects of 
antiquarian interest are derived from the once 
splendid Priory of Lewes, some preliminary re- 
marks may possibly not be deemed unseasonable 
in this place. Indeed the monastic establish- 
ments of our forefathers constituted so important 
a part of their state of society, as to require a 
few observations on these institutions in general, 
before we proceed to a description of this par- 
ticular edifice, and these remarks are rendered the 
more necessary in order to counteract the errors 
and misrepresentations which have prevailed on 
the subject. Misled by our prejudices, and hurried 
away by our feelings, we have been too much in the 
habit of stigmatizing these establishments as mere 
dens of sensuality, imposture, and crime, while 
we held their inmates, "the lazy monks," as they 
were called, to be mere sensualists, who were too 
much occupied in engrossing to themselves the good 
things of this life to bestow a thought on nobler 
or more exalted objects, or more philanthropic and 
benevolent pursuits. True it is that towards their 
dissolution they, like all other human institutions 
of ancient date, evinced the natural tendency to 
corruption and decay ; and the scenes of imposture 
and pretended miracle which were then exposed 
sufficiently proved their degradation and supersti- 
tion. But, even in that abased condition, they 



200 VISITS TO THE 

continued to be the dispensers of much good to 
society, as it was then constituted, nor can a 
stronger proof of their extensive charity and general 
utility be found than the fact that, on the suppres- 
sion of religious houses, it was found necessary to 
supply their charities to the poor by a system of 
legislative provisions, expressly enacted to fill the 
void left by the loss of their benefactions ; for, as 
is well known, the Poor Laws of Elizabeth, which, 
with some modifications consequent on the advance 
of society, prevail at this day, were imperatively 
called for by the spoliation and extinction of the 
monasteries by her father Henry VIII. And when 
we contemplate the advantages which these esta- 
blishments possessed in themselves, and the benefits 
which they were calculated to confer on others, we 
cannot but be impressed with the conviction that 
they were admirably adapted for the rude period 
and barbarous manners in which they flourished, 
and that they were instruments in the hands of 
Providence for the diffusion of much good in their 
age and time. They were, in fact, the depositories 
in which were placed all the learning, accomplish- 
ment, and worth, which existed at those epochs. 
The monks were the best, if not the sole, historians, 
chroniclers, and writers of their age, as well as the 
only scholars and instructers of youth ; the religious 
houses contained the sole libraries and seminaries 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 201 

of learning, and the chief, if not the only schools 
of all the arts then cultivated. As a proof that 
the monks of St. Pancras were not inferior to the 
rest of their fraternity in learning, it may be men- 
tioned that a manuscript is extant in the Cottonian 
Library of the British Museum, written in Latin, 
and entitled a " Treatise of Roman Emperors, 
Apostles, several Kings of England and Prelates 
of the Church, from the Nativity of Christ to the 
year 1312," which is stated in the title-page to be 
written by a monk of Lewes. Many of the minor 
arts they cultivated with skill and success, which 
have now either degenerated or become lost altoge- 
ther. But their chief triumph was in architecture ; 
their excellence in which may lead us at once to 
envy the skill of past ages, and to blush for the infe- 
riority of our own. To these attainments, if we add 
that they were the best agriculturists of those seras, 
that the sway which they exerted over their tenants, 
vassals, and dependants, was comparatively so 
gentle and mild, and contrasted so strongly with 
the harassing exactions of the rude and ferocious 
barons, who oppressed and tormented their unhappy 
inferiors without scruple or remorse, that the mild- 
ness of church domination, especially in Germany, 
passed into a proverb, and a saying is there pre- 
valent, "Man lebt gut unter dem kreuzstab" — " It 
is good to live under the crosier ;" and if we reflect 
moreover on the care and superintendence of their 

k 3 



202 VISITS TO THE 

large possessions ; if we call to mind that they were 
the only mediators of that age of violence and 
rapine, and were continually called on to interpose 
between contending parties, to mitigate the horrors 
of war, and place the mediation, and, if needful, 
the powerful shield of the church, between the 
oppressors and the oppressed ; if we add to these 
considerations the remembrance of their continual 
charity and benevolence, and reflect that they 
were the support and solace of the poor in their 
vicinity, that their enormous kitchens and culinary 
establishments were intended not so much for their 
own refection as for the sustenance of the needy 
and the starving around them ; and if we remember 
that with these minor excellences, they combined 
the unceasing practice of devotion, and that in 
many of their establishments the sacred rites knew 
no interruption — no pause — but that day and night 
the prayer of supplication and the song of praise 
ascended to Him to whom their lives were vowed 
and their energies devoted ; impressed w T ith these 
considerations, we cannot but feel that we are 
doing great injustice to these enlightened, and 
learned, and industrious, and holy men, if we in- 
considerately and flippantly adopt the prejudice of 
the vulgar, and condemn them as mere slaves of 
superstition, indolence, and crime. 

The priory was founded,* as is well known, by 

* History of Lewes. 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 203 

the great and potent Earl de Warenne, who was 
at once the kinsman and son-in-law of the Con- 
queror, and who, shortly after the Norman conquest, 
having vowed a pilgrimage to Rome to obtain the 
benediction of the Pope, found the continent, 
owing to the war then prevailing between the 
Emperor and the Pontiff, in too disturbed a state to 
allow T of his proceeding to the papal city, and having 
sojourned for a while at the monastery of Cluni, in 
Burgundy, was induced, from his admiration of the 
piety, learning, and wisdom of the monks, to com- 
mute his pilgrimage to the throne of St. Peter for 
the erection of a religious house adjacent to his 
castle at Lewes, and accordingly devoted the church 
of St. Pancras, which he had found of wood, and 
rebuilt of stone, to the purposes of a monastic 
foundation. The abbot of Cluni, with that paternal 
care which was so becoming to the character of a 
spiritual superior, at first objected to send any of 
his fraternity to so great a distance and so strange 
a land ; but yielding at length to the solicitations 
of the earl, he consented to despatch Sir Lanzo 
(as he was termed) as superior, with three other 
monks, to superintend the new establishment, which 
was endowed and provided for with a liberality and 
munificence worthy of a noble like De Warenne, 
whose power and possessions were inferior only to 
those of royalty itself. The concluding terms of 



204 VISITS TO THE 

the charter are strongly expressive of his anxiety : 
— " This, my donation and charter, I have made in 
order to be witnessed by the king in council, at 
Winchester, by making the sign of the holy cross 
with his own hand, and by the signs and testimonies 
of the bishops, earls, and barons then present. 
Amen ! May God visit with the sword of his 
anger, and wrath, and vengeance, and everlasting 
curses, those who act contrary to and invalidate 
these things ; but those who protect and defend 
them, may he reward with peace, favour, com- 
passion, and everlasting salvation. Amen, amen, 
amen ! " 

Under prudent and enlightened direction the 
infant establishment speedily attained so much 
honour and renown, that no less than six priories 
of the same order were subsequently founded in 
different parts of the country, several of which were 
nearly, if not quite equal in importance to that of 
Lewes, but were all subordinate to it. 

The character of Lanzo, the first prior, has been 
briefly but forcibly eulogized by Dugdale, who 
states, that under his management no monastery 
could excel this in the religious character of its 
inmates, in courteousness towards its guests, and 
in charity to all. 

Its early reputation increased with the progress 
of years, the fame of its inmates for learning, 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 205 

sanctity, wisdom, and charity, was widely diffused, 
it was honoured with the patronage of the great 
and noble while living, and was chosen as their 
place of interment when dead. Independently of 
the Earls de Warenne, various members of other 
noble families connected with the county; of the 
Albinis and Fitz Alans, Lords of Arundel ; of the 
Sydneys, Earls of Pembroke ; and Nevilles, Earls 
of Abergavenny ; are known to have been interred 
within its precincts. The circumstances attending 
the burial of one of the priors, Thomas Nelrond, 
in the church of Cowfold, a village near Horsham, 
are too remarkable to be passed over without com- 
ment. This ecclesiastic, considering himself, in all 
probability, too humble an individual to deserve a 
tomb among the noble, and pious, and distinguished 
personages who lie buried in the priory, chose for 
his place of interment, the humble village church of 
Cowfold, where a beautiful monumental brass, in 
admirable preservation, records, in monkish Latin 
rhyme, his humility, piety, and virtue. The cir- 
cumstances attending his grave afford a striking 
illustration of the beautiful sentiment of Scripture, 
that " he that humbleth himself shall be exalted ;" 
for while the prouder monuments of the priory 
were scattered and demolished at the dissolution, 
this modest tomb, placed in an obscure village 
church, was shielded from notice and demolition, 



206 VISITS TO THE 

and is the only sepulchral record of the mighty 
priors of Lewes which has escaped destruction. 
For these dignitaries, be it observed, enjoyed high 
temporal, as well as spiritual rank ; they possessed 
a "hostelry" and a religious house in London, and 
held a seat in Parliament. The remains of this 
hostelry, which was situated in Southwark, were 
extant within a few years. The most important 
event which occurred in this locality during the 
existence of the priory was the celebrated battle 
and subsequent Mise, or treaty, of Lewes, between 
the weak and fickle Henry III. and Simon de 
Montfort and his confederate barons. This cele- 
brated and sanguinary fight has been so often and 
so ably described before, that a mere general de- 
scription is all that will be necessary for the present 
purpose. We had occasion just now, in allusion 
to the burial-place of Thomas Nelrond, the prior 
of Lewes, to refer to a maxim of Scripture, which 
teaches that "he that humbleth himself shall be 
exalted ;" we have now as striking an exemplifica- 
tion of that text which informs us, " Vengeance is 
mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord," and which 
shows us that whenever the passions of man induce 
him to arrogate to himself this peculiar prero- 
gative of the Almighty, he does so at his own cost 
and to his own discomfiture. It appears that the 
vanguard of the popular forces was composed of 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 207 

Londoners, and that Prince Edward solicited to be 
allowed the honour of attacking them, in order to 
revenge an insult which they had recently offered 
to his mother, the queen. The event is thus nar- 
rated by Holinshed. Relating the attack on the 
queen, he states, in his quaint language : — " On the 
Saturdaie next after the translation of Saint Benet, 
as the queene would have passed by water from the 
Tower unto Windsore, a sort of lewd naughti packs 
got them to the bridge, making a noise at hir and 
crying, ( drown the witch ;' threw downe stones, 
cudgels, dirt, and other things at hir, so that she 
escaped with great danger of her persone, fled to 
Lambeth, and through fear to be further persued, 
landed there, and so staid till the mayor of London, 
with much ado appesing the fury of the people, 
regained the queene, and brought her back again 
in safetie unto the Tower." This was a gross 
outrage in itself, in that age, when majesty was 
held all but sacred ; it was considered little short of 
sacrilege itself, and Prince Edward vowed to wash 
out the injury with blood; accordingly, on the 
preparations for the battle being made, learning 
that the Londoners were in the van, he eagerly 
demanded permission to attack them, in order to 
avenge the insult recorded above, and by this means 
fell into his own snare. But here it will be desi- 
rable that Holinshed should again relate his own 



208 VISITS TO THE 

story. " At the first encounter," he says, " the 
Londoners were beaten back, for Prince Edward so 
fiercelie assailed them that they were not able to 
abide the brunt. He hated them indeed above all 
other, namelie, for that of late they had misused 
his mother, reviling hir, and throwing durt and 
stones at hir (as before ye have heard) which wrong 
and abuse by them committed was, peradventure, 
on their parts forgotten, but of Prince Edward, as 
it seemeth, remembered, for — 

' Pulvere qui laedit, sed laesus marmore scribit. 

' He who inflicts an injury, writes it in dust ; he who 
suffers it, in marble.' 

" Hereupon Prince Edward, to be revenged of 
them, after they began to fly, most eagerlie fol- 
lowed them, chased and slew them by heaps. But 
whilest he separated himself by such earnest fol- 
lowing of the Londoners too farre from the residue 
of the king's armie, he was the onlie cause of the 
loss of that field ; for the Earl of Leicester per- 
ceiving that the prince, with the chiefest force of 
the king's armie, was thus gone after the Lon- 
doners (of whom he made no great account) he 
exhorted his people to show their valliance at that 
instant, and so coming upon his adversaries with 
great courage, in a moment put them to flight." 
The king, previous to the battle, had taken up his 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 209 

quarters in the Priory, while Prince Edward occu- 
pied the castle; and on the loss of the battle the 
discomfited monarch again took refuge within its 
sacred limits, where he was detained prisoner by 
De Montfort. The king of the Romans sought 
refuge in a mill, and was there discovered and 
taken; and the taunts of the popular leaders to 
the imprisoned sovereign, as recorded by contem- 
porary historians, — " Come forth, Master Miller, 
come down, thou unlucky master of the mill/' — are 
altogether in the spirit and character of the times. 
The treaty which followed, the Mise of Lewes, as it 
is called, is equally well known, and excites our 
sympathies by the redeeming qualities of filial 
affection which it presents, since it provides that 
Prince Edward and Henry d'Allmaine, who were 
yet free, should yield themselves prisoners in re- 
demption of their fathers who were detained as 
captives. But we need not wonder at any fea- 
tures of lenity and gentleness which marked this 
treaty, though its provisions were afterwards ruth- 
lessly broken by Leicester ; for the church (agree- 
ably to what has already been mentioned as its 
usual practice in those days), became the mediator ; 
and two of the monks of St. Pancras on the royal 
part, and two of the Minorites, or Grey Friars, on 
the popular side, were chosen to conduct the nego- 
tiations. The convent of Minorites, it is to be 



210 VISITS TO THE 

observed, was a religious foundation, whose his- 
tory is veiled in obscurity, and of which little is 
known save that it was destroyed, like the Priory, 
in the time of Henry VIII. 

An additional circumstance of considerable im- 
portance in our annals is connected with the his- 
tory of this aera and this edifice. The policy of 
the Earl of Leicester induced him to summon a 
popular Parliament, with the view of sanctioning 
him in his daring purpose of keeping the king pri- 
soner. Two representatives for each county, and 
two for each city and borough, were accordingly 
summoned, and thus the writs for assembling the 
first Reformed Parliament, it may be said, were 
issued from these walls. The Priory continued to 
flourish with unabated splendour till 1347, w r hen the 
marriage of the heiress of the last Earl de Warenne 
with the Earl of Arundel, deprived Lewes of much 
of the importance and superiority which it formerly 
possessed, and which were now transferred to the 
former town. The warlike resolution and unfor- 
tunate fate of one of its priors, John de Cariloco, * 
may serve to relieve somewhat of the monotony of 
its later career. In 1377, shortly after the demise 
of Edward III. the French, taking advantage of 
the distracted reign of his weak and youthful 
grandson, Richard II., landed at Rottingdean, with 
the design to ransack Lewes. In this object they 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 211 

were foiled by the courage of the Prior of St. Pan- 
eras, John de Cariloco, who, with Sir Thomas 
Cheny, constable of Dovor Castle, Sir John Falsley, 
John Broches, Esq. and others, assisted by the 
peasantry of the neighbourhood, boldly attacked 
the foe ; and though their rude forces were routed 
by the disciplined troops of the French, and the 
Prior and the two Knights taken prisoners, yet by 
the loss which they occasioned the enemy, they 
compelled them to retreat, abandon their enter- 
prise, and return to France. 

We now arrive at the epoch when this cele- 
brated and magnificent structure shared the fate of 
so many other religious edifices, and was levelled 
and destroyed by the tyrant, Henry VIII. and his 
kindred satellites. Letters are extant describing 
its destruction, and the more than common means 
which were found requisite to demolish this 
splendid building. So complete, however, has been 
its overthrow, that not only was the edifice brought 
to the ground, and its monuments and remains 
dispersed, but even the site of its various depart- 
ments is no longer to be distinguished. The only 
remains which have been recovered are the tomb 
of Gundred, placed in Southover church, and 
the architectural fragments now preserved in this 
Museum. But ere we treat of these, let us for a 
moment sketch before the mind's eye, a view of 



212 VISITS TO THE 

this celebrated structure as it stood in its primitive 
magnificence, a proud and hallowed monument of 
the wisdom, benevolence, and piety of our fore- 
fathers. Placed in a delightful and convenient 
situation, sufficiently near to the castle to avail 
itself, if need were, of its power and protection, 
yet so prudently remote as to secure it from being 
annoyed or disturbed by the warlike character of 
the fortress ; surrounded with all the adjuncts of 
a noble, nay, a princely mansion, with gardens, 
orchards, fish-ponds, and dove-houses of immense 
extent ; it reared its towers and pinnacles on high 
in all the pomp of magnificence, in all the beauty 
of holiness ; a temple of worship to the surrounding 
neighbourhood; a shrine of charity and mercy, 
whose provisions failed not to the needy and dis- 
tressed ; a place of refuge and security from the 
oppressor and unjust; adorned with all the pomp 
of architectural splendour, as these few and im- 
perfect remains yet strongly evince ; resorted to 
and honoured by the great and powerful while 
living, and chosen as their place of sepulture when 
dead ; while the vast extensive fane glowed with 
animation, with industry and devotion, and the 
sacred duties of study and of learning, of charity 
and of mercy, of intercession and forgiveness, of 
prayer and praise, ceased not within its walls. 
And what is its condition now? Its towers are 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 213 

overthrown, its monuments scattered to the winds 
of heaven, and its very site and situation a matter 
of doubt. One is almost ashamed to intrude one's 
own trivialities and puny productions amid these 
sacred recollections of the past, and the indulgence 
of the reader is solicited for the following lines, 
which were suggested by a visit to the spot : — 

Beautiful structure ! as the pilgrim strays 

Through the lone precincts of thy mould'ring walls, 
And marks thy ruin'd shrines, thy roofless halls. 

He feels reviv'd the dreams of other days : 

For hark, e : en now what sounds of prayer and praise 
Fill the rapt ear with all the bliss of song, 
While shadowy forms at distance glide along. 

And choral voices loud Hosannas raise ! 

The anthem swells, rich wreaths of incense soar, 
The slow procession leads its lengthen' d train, 
Devotion lives and breathes through all the fane, 

And fancy rules a moment and no more ; 

For hark, yon music dies o'er vale and hill ; 

Yon shadowy forms depart, and all once more is still ! 

The architectural remains comprise a series of 
capitals of columns, friezes, mouldings, &c 3 which 
have been pronounced by Mr, Britton, the eminent 
antiquary, to be of high interest, as exhibiting 
samples of the earliest Norman architecture now 
extant. One fragment of the kind, in excellent 
preservation, exhibits in one of its compartments 



214 VISITS TO THE 

the Miraculous Draught of Fishes, in which the 
boat, the net, the fish, and in particular the faces 
of the astonished fishermen, are rudely but boldly 
and spiritedly depicted. 

The suite of figured tiles placed in an adjoining 
cabinet, is of high antiquarian interest ; they 
were, as their name imports, not of English, 
but Norman manufacture. They are not super- 
ficially coloured, not merely painted over, but are 
inlaid with a different coloured earth, as is obvious 
in many instances where the latter has crumbled 
away and fallen out of its situation; and after 
having been inlaid, the tile appears to have been 
exposed to a strong heat, and the glazing pro- 
duced. They were discovered by Dr. Mantell 
many years ago, in a part of the edifice called the 
dungeon, now destroyed. 

The late Lord Henniker, when residing at Caen, 
in France, about the year 1789, discovered a 
number of similar tiles in the ruins of an abbey in 
that city, called the Abbaye aux Hommes, (where 
the tomb of the Conqueror is shown,) at that time 
used as a granary, and his Lordship addressed a 
letter to the Society of Antiquaries, through the 
medium of their president, the Earl of Leicester, 
in explanation of these relics. Those which his 
Lordship discovered appear to have been extremely 
similar to those now exhibited, and are evidently 



MANT^LLIAN MUSEUM. 215 

of the same origin and manufacture, the convent 
to which they belonged having been founded by 
William. His Lordship remarks that they are 
composed only of two colours, white and brown, 
a description which exactly applies to the objects 
here described, while among the armorial devices 
which they offer is a Fleur de Lis, exactly resem- 
bling a tile in this museum. Those which Lord 
Henniker describes in his pamphlet are intended 
chiefly to represent the armorial bearings of the 
most distinguished families of the country, a purpose 
which is also evidently contemplated by those of 
Lewes Priory. The object of his Lordship's work is 
to prove that these tiles are contemporary with the 
Conquest, a fact which he has established in a very 
satisfactory manner : and which serves to prove 
a circumstance of some interest to the antiquary, 
namely, that heraldic bearings, such as are depicted 
in these tiles, and which are generally considered not 
to have been employed until after the termination of 
the first crusade, were in use at the Conquest, nearly 
a century before. The relics in question represent 
the armorial distinctions of the great families of this 
county ; conspicuous among which is the celebrated 
chequer or et azur> the badge of the great de 
Warerme, founder of the edifice, and second only in 
importance and dignity to the arms of royalty itself, 
Some have figures of knights on horseback, fleur de 



216 VISITS TO THE 

lis, stags, birds, and other devices. Similar pavements 
are occasionally found in our ancient cathedrals, 
placed around the high altar in commemoration of 
noble and distinguished individuals who have been 
benefactors to the establishment. Various divi- 
sions of the same cabinet contain sepulchral British 
and Roman urns, and Roman vases, for holding 
holy oil and water, and the ashes of the dead. A 
fine specimen of a British urn, from near Bletching- 
ton, is in excellent preservation. A remarkable 
earthen vessel, of conical form, with numerous 
perforations on the sides, has occasioned no small 
difficulty to antiquaries, since the singularity of the 
relic is increased by the fact, that no similar vase 
is known to exist in the cabinet of any collector, 
nor has it been found figured in any publication. 
It is presumed, however, to have been used for 
incense, and that the drugs were lighted below, 
and the vapour diffused through the apertures at 
the sides, on the principle of the pastille-burners 
of the present day. An adjoining shelf contains a 
relic equally unique ; it is a ball, composed of a 
round nodule of flint, coated over with a very hard 
composition ; the ground white, ornamented with 
stars of a reddish brown colour. It was discovered 
in a vessel of coarsest earthenware, part of which still 
remains. A drawing close by exhibits the outline of 
a Roman urn, found in the garden of Dr. Mantell 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 21 i 

at Lewes, containing the bones of a cock, conceived 
to be the offering to Esculapius, an instance of 
which is mentioned in the death of Socrates, who 
reminds his friends, " I have vowed a cock to 
Esculapius; see that the debt be paid." The same 
case contains a similar classic relic, disinterred a 
short time since by a ploughman, on the estate of 
the Marquis of Bristol, at Kemp town. The 
ploughshare struck the vase and disclosed its con- 
tents ; they are burnt human bones — those of a 
young female ; and it is inferred that some young 
Roman lady has lived and died on this spot ,that her 
remains have been consumed on the funeral pile, 
and the ashes carefully collected and placed in this 
receptacle. This highly interesting memorial has 
given rise to the following lines : — 

Urn of the dead ! so long entombed 

Within thy lone sepulchral cave ; 
What varied thoughts, with thee exhumed, 

Arise, with thee, from out the grave ! 

These ashes of the young and fair, 
If now endued with life and breath, 

Might to our anxious minds declare 

Some sad sweet tale of love and death ! 

Thus might they tell, if fell disease 
Had snatched the Roman maid away ; 

Or, if bereav'd of health and ease, 
She fell — to grief a lingering prey ! 

L 



218 VISITS TO THE 

Or they might speak, if Pagan fears 
Increased the terrors of her doom ; 

And, if 'mid doubts and sighs and tears* 
She sank in sorrow to the tomb ! 

Or they might say, if Christian hope 
Smiled sweetly on her latest hours ; 

And if her parting soul had scope, 

For prospects bright and blest as ours I 

But no ! these relics only show 

How brief the space on earth that's given ;- 
Teach, that no rest is found below, 

And bid us fix our hopes in Heaven ! 



The skull of a youth, in like manner, tells its brief 
eventful history. A number of skeletons were dis- 
covered a short time since, near the heights on 
which, was fought the battle of Lewes ; and from 
their being all those of youths of sixteen or 
eighteen, and not one of an adult, it is conceived 
that they were the remains of the London appren- 
tices, whose fate has been already alluded to, and 
w r ho may be regarded as martyrs in the cause of 
liberty. Urns, vases, swords, armour, and other 
relics of like interest, occupy the remainder of this 
cabinet, which contains a treasury for the antiquarian. 

A small case adjoining closes the collection, and 
contains the spoils of the tumuli and barrows of 
the vicinity. In the sepulchres of men were 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 219 

found the flint celt, and the stone from which it 
was rudely fashioned; the celt of bronze, the 
sword, the dagger, the arrow-head, and the spear. 
In the tombs of ladies were placed their weapons, 
in the shape of ornaments, rings, bracelets, and 
beads. One group contains the whole parapher- 
nalia of a British lady of rank, all composed of 
bronze, the armlet worn above the elbow ; the brace- 
let for the wrist ; the circlet for the hair, with rings 
for the finger and thumb ; the circlet and celt having 
been broken, evidently by design, before they were 
buried: together with amulets, arrow-heads of 
stone, celts, blades of knives, spears, and swords of 
the Britons. Similar relics of the Saxons, with the 
beautiful gold ear-ring of a lady of that nation, 
with beads, buckles, keys, tweezers, and pins, con- 
stitute the remaining contents of the case ; and a 
little Roman bronze figure of Cupid, found by a 
ploughman at Falmer, and presented by the writer 
to Dr. Mantell, has formed the subject of a subse- 
quent article. Among the relics of the Middle Ages 
is an Apostle's spoon, which it was, and is now in 
Switzerland and Germany, the practice among 
Catholics for sponsors at baptisms to present to 
their god-children. Shakspeare, whose observa- 
tion was most extensive, whose learning and infor- 
mation were universal, has an allusion to this fact. 
In the play of Henry VIII. Cardinal Wolsey 
objects to act as sponsor at the baptism of Queen 

l 2 



220 VISITS TO THE 

Elizabeth, when the king remonstrates, observing-, 
in obvious allusion to this practice, — 

" Lord Cardinal, you wish to save your spoons." 

The description might be prolonged ad infinitum, 
since every object, especially of antiquarian cha- 
racter, has its legend, and the interest of such a 
collection consists not merely in the objects them- 
selves, but in the associations with which they are 
connected ; but we must now limit our inquiries 
and draw to a close. 



Such, then, is this Museum ; or rather, such is a 
hasty glance at its most interesting and valuable 
contents ; for when it is mentioned that the collec- 
tion comprises from twenty to thirty thousand spe- 
cimens, it may be conceived that a whole volume 
would be insufficient to describe its treasures. As 
the collection of a private individual, it is perhaps 
unrivalled, and calls for our high commendation of 
its founder, who, by his unwearied investigations 
into nature, history, and antiquity, has furnished 
so many sources of improvement and gratification, 
and discovered new worlds of study and reflection. 

The Museum has been most extensively and 
numerously visited ; and has by its exhibition, 
as already stated, contributed more powerfully to 
diffuse a taste for science than perhaps any similar 
establishment extant. Occasionally indeed the num- 



MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 221 

ber, variety, and importance of its objects seem to 
produce some little confusion of ideas in the minds 
of its visitants, as will be observed in the following 
instances, the facetious nature of which may possibly 
enliven the dryness of the technical and antiquarian 
discussions in which we have been employed. 

A lady one day begged to recommend a young- 
friend (who, par parentMse, was exceedingly hand- 
some) to the especial care of the attendant on the 
Museum, on the ground of her being " an excellent 
geologist." The party thus appealed to, expressed 
the gratification he should feel in displaying the 
collection to one so well qualified to judge of its 
value, and accordingly he commenced the tour of 
inspection ; when arriving at the fossils of the Paris 
basin, he remarked, " You are aware, Madam, what a 
basin is, of course ?" " Of course," replied the fair 
philosopher ; " it's a thing to wash your hands in !" 

Describing, on another occasion, the fossils of 
the chalk, the exhibitor was interrupted by a lady, 
who exclaimed, " The Ammonites ! O pray, Sir, 
show me the Ammonites ; they are what one reads 
of in the Scriptures !" 

" Come, my dear, do look at this," said a gentle- 
man to his female friend, pointing to a relic already 
described; "this is one of the very spoons that 
were used by the Apostles !" 

There are but few persons who are not aware that 
a tribute frequently paid to savans, is the employing 



222 VISITS TO THE MANTELLIAN MUSEUM. 

their name as the specific designation of some natural 
object. Thus have we Cycadea Mantellii, Chimera 
Mantellii. " Now/' said a lady to her friend, 
" the meaning of this name Mantellii being used, 
is that when the workmen find a curiosity, no 
name is put to it, it not being thought worth while ; 
but when Dr. Mantell finds anything, he puts his 
own name upon it, which is no more than fair and 
right." Strange to say, a Professor, (whether of 
Oxford or Cambridge is perfectly immaterial,) 
was of a totally opposite sentiment, for he thought 
it " decided bad taste in Dr. Mantell to put his 
own name on the things he found !" 

From various poetic tributes which have been 
paid to this collection, we will select the following 
as the close of our observations. 

Mantell ! thou nobly hast achiev'd the praise 
That but to noblest natures doth belong ; 
To soar superior to the triflers' throng, 

And by thy deeds thy monument to raise ! 

For who that o'er thy vast Museum strays, 

And views with awe-struck soul the scene sublime, 
That seems to spurn the bounds of space and time, 

And wakes to view the world of other days ! 

O who but feels that thou hast reared a fame, 
That not alone shall charm the present age, 
But to all time the pilgrim shall engage, 

To seek the spot where all thy triumphs reign ! 

Yes, thou hast reared thee an immortal shrine ; 

Then live or die content, a deathless name is thine ! 



BBAMBLETYE HOUSE. 



Time -wasted pile ! where ruin darkly lowers, 

How changed thine aspect since these roofless walls 
Shone forth as Beauty's courts, as Grandeur's halls, 

And mirth and music cheer'd your festive hours. 

Yet lo ! once more with spell of magic powers, 
A master-mind hath wak'd ye from your trance, 
Reviv'd again the dream of old Romance, 

And fill'd your courts and deck'd again your bowers. 

But see ! the charm is o'er, — the spell is read ; 
The master shuts again his open'd book ; 
Each fancied form hath sought some hidden nook ; 

The scene is still, and all its joys are fled. 

Yet many a charm still lurks these relics round ; 

I linger as I go, — the spot is classic ground ! 



L 3 



THE BRONZE CUPID. 



A Tale of the Mantellian Museum. 



During the second invasion of this island by 
Julius Csesar, and at a period when a portion of 
his troops occupied the encampment now termed 
the Devil's Dyke, two youthful Roman officers met 
at an early hour of the morning, on the brow which 
o'erlooks the flat country at its base. 

" Good morrow, Apronius," said the elder of the 
two, " already risen at so early an hour ?" 

" Yes, my Lucilius, occupied with my wonted 
and favourite diversion, wooing Aurora, ere yet 
she deigns to appear." 

" You know the proverb, Apronius, that there 
is no disputing about tastes. I will not therefore 
quarrel with thee concerning thine. Yet this I 
will say for myself, that thy darling Aurora is no 
favourite of mine ; I have ever found her too coy 
and chilling, and fain have sought a warmer and 
more willing deity, The lovely Hebe or yet 
lovelier Venus were a goddess more to my taste." 



THE BRONZE CUPID. 2 L Zo 

" True, Lucilius ; and Aurora, cold as she is even 
in our native Italy, is doubly chilling on the lone, 
bleak hills of this savage land. Soldier as I am, I 
could fain wish that these wars were over, and that 
we could again return to our country and our 
home." 

"But, my Apronius, as a Roman and a soldier, 
we must each perform a soldier's duty." 

" Yet, Lucilius, though Romans and soldiers, 
we still are men, and possess human feelings ; 
and I must own, my friend, I feel somewhat of 
repugnance at our present career of conquest and 
slaughter. Our attack on the Gauls had per- 
haps some colour of justice, though the dreadful 
retribution we inflicted far exceeded the measure 
of their offence ; but, in the case of these poor, 
ignorant Britons, I cannot find even the pretence 
for invading them. 

" Nay, nay, Apronius, 'tis the soldier's duty to 
fight, remember, not to reason ; nor mayst thou, 
my friend, though educated in Greece, presume 
to enact the teacher in the camp, or dictate the 
maxims of philosophy, instead of obeying the 
orders of thy commander." 

" True, Lucilius ; yet one need not wholly forget 
the pursuits of letters amid the duties of the army, 
nor the studies of philosophy in the dangers of war. 
'Tis even rumoured in the camp, that our Ccesar 

l3 



226 THE BRONZE CUPID. 

himself is actually writing a Commentary on his 
wars, and that he never retires to rest at night ere 
he hath recorded the events and actions of the day. 
To a friend, moreover, one may express feelings 
one would not proclaim before the multitude. 
When I look on the rude yet harmless savages 
around us, I ask, are we justified in coming to 
spread desolation and misery among them ? How 
many slaughters shall we not occasion ! How 
many widows and orphans render desolate ! How 
oft shall the bereaved British maiden rue the hour 
that deprived her of her lover, and curse our hated 
Roman name !" 

" Nay, nay, thougrow'st too eloquent, my friend> 
and one might deem wast thyself enamoured of one 
of these island maidens, so warmly dost thou plead 
their cause." 

" Lucilius, I will not ask if I may trust thee — 
our friendship is of too strict, too sacred a nature 
to admit of doubt or question. Know, then, that 
I have conceived a passion, nay, have established 
an intimacy, with one of these island maids. A few 
nights after our arrival, attracted by the beauty of 
the vale, I so far transgressed the commands of our 
leader and the discipline of our camp, as to descend 
from these heights and roam along the woodsat 
their base, till, bewildered amid the mazes of the 
thicket, I was unable to regain the pathway to our 



THE BRONZE CUPID, 227 

camp. After vainly attempting to recover my road, 
overcome with fatigue and the weight of my arms, 
I resigned myself to slumber, determined to await 
the morning ere I resumed my journey. Suddenly 
I was awakened by a vision of exceeding beauty. 
A native girl stood before me who had evidently 
been watching my slumbers. Her fair hair streamed 
to the winds of night, her blue eyes beamed on me 
a look of pity and surprise, and her whole aspect 
was at once so strange and different from our dark- 
eyed Italian maids, that I at first imagined her a 
being of superior order, and thought that some 
native dryad had emerged from her sacred forest- 
shade to awaken and direct me. I accosted her in 
the Gallic language, which as thou knowest I 
learned during our late wars in Gaul. She replied 
in a dialect of the same tongue ; and with eager 
haste explained that I had been descried by the 
natives, and that several of their warriors, among 
whom was her brother, were seeking me amid the 
woods. She offered her guidance ; and, led by her 
hand, and guided by her knowledge of the country, 
I reached our camp in safety ere my absence was 
remarked by the tribune in command. Yet we 
parted not till she had promised me another inter- 
view ; and this night, when the latest trumpet shall 
sound, I have appointed to meet her in yon grove 
of oaks, whither she repairs to gather the sacred 



228 THE BRONZE CUPID. 

mistletoe, which it seems these savages adore. 
And may I request a favour from my Lucilius; 
will my friend look to my command, and fulfil my 
duty till my return ?" 

" And watch and walk over these cold hills while 
thou art warmly housed with thy new-found flame, 
A modest request, truly ! Well, well, 'tis granted ; 
depart and rely on me ; but hark thee, Apronius, 
a campaign against the enemy thou know'st counts 
for two years of peaceful service at home ; where- 
fore when we return to fair Italy again, I promise 
to keep thee two nights on duty for every one I 
serve for thee here. But we now must part — the 
tribune approaches — the calls of duty must be 
obeyed. Vale, amice, vale!' 1 

The friends separated, the day passed but tardily 
to the enamoured Apronius, who at night-fall 
visited the tent of his friend Lucilius, and then, 
muffled in a dark mantle, hastened down the decli- 
vity of the mountain, and sought the forest at its 
foot. At the appointed rendezvous, an oak of 
primeval growth, he found waiting the fair object 
of his expedition, the native maid. 

" My deity," exclaimed the impatient Roman, 
" my fair Venus of this island-shore, so, thou art 
ready to welcome and receive thy votary. I hope 
I have not kept thee waiting long. But say, 
fair one, by what name shall T call thee; a name, 



THE BRONZE CUPID. 229 

believe me, that shall be ever dear to my heart and 
lips ?" 

" I am called Voana," said the maiden, " and am 
daughter of Belino, a chief residing near ; my 
uncle is the Druid Camur, who is deeply skilled in 
magic, and of whose powerful charms thou doubt- 
less must have heard." 

"Not I, fair one, nor should heed them if I had. 
I have seen thine, however, and believe me, they 
are matchless. Nay, turn thee not away in 
modesty or scorn, but let me thank my goddess- 
preserver for the life she has spared. And having 
saved, wilt thou not render me happy ; and when 
these wars are ended, return with me to our fair 
Italy, and be mine alone ?" 

" Hear me. I have heard of thy country- 
men from the merchants who use to trade with 
Gaul. Ye are bloodthirsty, men say, and cruel; 
and truly, were ye not so, why, after spoiling our 
neighbours, come into our poor land and rob us 
of the little that poverty allows us ? When last we 
met, you boasted, stranger, that your countrymen 
were rich ; that yours is a land producing fruits, 
and plants, and generous drinks that men call 
wines ; while we have but the scanty fare of want, 
the milk yielded by our herds, and the rough juice 
which we press from the barley-corn. I am but a 
simple girl, and know not of the temples and palaces 



230 THE BRONZE CUPID, 

which travellers talk of in your distant lands ; yet, 
stranger, if your country be so fair, your lands so 
rich, your towns so large, why envy us these bleak 
and barren hills, or seek to drive us from our poor 
and lowly valleys ?" 

" Nay, nay, my fair reasoner, thine eloquence is, 
like thy beauty, all convincing, and I dare not 
contend with one whose looks and speech are alike 
persuasive. I am a soldier, and perchance thou 
know'st it is a soldier's duty to obey, not to 
question the orders he receives." 

" Yet, methinks, when you would make widows 
and orphans, ye might inquire the reason which 
prompted such cruel deeds. We poor savages of 
this poor island can at least have done no wrong to 
thee or thine. Why not then leave us in peace ?" 

""lis but to introduce among you a better, 
happier mode of life, that we come thus in rude and 
hostile manner to your shores. When we shall 
have reduced your nation to obedience, we shall 
confer on you the advantages of civilized life, and 
teach you the refinements and benefits we ourselves 
enjoy." 

" And make us, no doubt, cruel and bloodthirsty 
as yourselves. Away! away! rather shall Voana 
pray her native gods that Britons shall ever remain 
rude and uncultivated, than that they shall acquire 
the vices and the cruelty of their Roman invaders." 



THE BRONZE CUPID. 231 

" Nay, nay, my pretty prophetess, for methinks 
thou look'st one in thy scorn, if such be thy hatred 
of us Romans, — and I own we deserve somewhat of 
thy indignation, — why wast thou the other night 
so anxious to save one of these Romans, my un- 
worthy self?" 

" Stranger, had I met thee in the battle, I own to 
thee I would have hurled a dagger at thy breast, 
or at least, with my woman's voice have urged our 
warriors to the conflict. But, I saw thee sleeping 
and defenceless ; a word of mine had sacrificed thy 
life ; at the risk of my own thou know'st I led thee 
to a place of safety, and to-night have idly, weakly, 
met thee again. 'Tis said we love the being we 
have protected ; I feel it even thus, and entertain, 
in spite of my natural hatred to my country's foes, 
a love for thee ! In proof whereof I entreat thee 
for thy own safety to depart; the night wastes, 
and thou wilt scarcely retrace thy steps to thy 
countrymen ere morning. So farewell." 

" No, my sylvan love, we part not thus early — ■ 
well, if we must separate, accept at least a token 
of my gratitude, my love. Here is a statue of the 
most potent of our deities, the God of Love ; 
though but a child, my girl, he is all-powerful ; his 
car is drawn by lions, whom he hath tamed ; and 
he is obeyed by men and gods ! Take him, sweet 
maiden, to thy breast, and when amid the oak- 
woods of thy native land, the mystic Druid bids 



232 THE BRONZE CUPID. 

thee bow to yon pale moon, or adore her host of 
attendant stars, then breathe a prayer to love, and 
cast one thought upon thy Roman youth !" 

" I will accept thy gift, stranger, and wear it 
next my heart ! And now must we part, for morn- 
ing is about to dawn." 

" Farewell, my love, and on the third night 
hence, when the full moon looks on our encamp- 
ment, then look thou on this spot for thy Roman 
lover. And now one embrace, and one farewell, 
since it must be so." 

" Farewell ; the third night, said'st thou ?" 

" Even so ; farewell ! farewell !" 

The Roman left the spot, and sought his camp. 
From the intricacy of the way, his journey was 
protracted, and it was late ere he attained the spot. 
On reaching the porta prcetoria, or chief entrance, 
he was hoarsely accosted by the sentinel, and found 
that his friend Lucilius was dispossessed of his charge, 
which had passed into other and severer hands. 
The strict Trebellius, a veteran famed for severity 
of discipline, held the command, and by his order 
the youthful lover, who was unable to give a 
feasible account of his nocturnal expedition, was 
consigned to his tent to be reported to the general 
on the morrow. Here he was speedily sought by 
his friend Lucilius, who entered with the frank 
good feeling of a soldier. 

" Courage, my Apronius. Be of good cheer, 



THE BRONZE CUPID. 233 

man, though it must be owned fortune hath served 
us both an ugly trick. The truth is, thou must 
learn to shorten thy love-tales, and be quicker 
in thy wooing. I had continued full four hours 
on the watch, when at last old Trebellius came 
down, and swearing the good round oath of all the 
gods at once, ordered me to my tent and took the 
guard himself; and, as I have just now heard, 
threatens to report thee to the general to-morrow. 
Nay, never mind, man, come matters to the worst 
'tis but to own all, and our general loves a night 
adventure and a fair girl too well himself, not to 
excuse the same taste in another. I have but 
looked in to cheer thee, and for thy sake had better 
disappear as soon as may be convenient ; so fare- 
well r 

" Farewell, my friend, ago gratias, many thanks 
for thy friendly offers, which I regret only for the 
trouble and possible disgrace they may occasion 
thee!" 

" Tush, man, never name it ; but, — well remem- 
bered, — how goes thy courtship ? is thine island 
Venus a favourable or an unfavourable deity ? 
frowns she or smiles upon thy suit ?" 

" Of that when we next meet, Lucilius ; for the 
present, stay not too long, lest thou incur the risk 
of sharing my disgrace." 

" As you wish, Apronius, farewell till morning." 



234 THE BRONZE CUPID. 

The morrow came, and ushered in a new and 
important event. The natives had assembled in 
great numbers during the night, and. advanced 
rashly and ignorantly to attack the almost impreg- 
nable encampment of the Romans. The scene was 
new and strange, and the Roman host gazed awhile, 
lost in astonishment at their new and barbarian 
foes. The extensive and wooded valleys of the 
weald were filled with a numerous and varied host. 
The greater number were on foot, while here and 
there the chariot of a chief was seen careering 
before the ranks, when the warrior occasionally 
checked his horses at full speed, to harangue his 
countrymen, or to utter imprecations of defiance 
on the foe, and to hurl a javelin towards their 
distant camp. The main body of the assailants 
was composed of a strange undisciplined mass 
of warriors, either naked and dyed deep blue, or 
tattooed like the present savages of the Southern 
seas, or partially covered with the skins of wild 
beasts. Their arms consisted generally of a shield, 
the outer part composed of rude leather, the inner 
formed with bosses of iron ; a short spear, fur- 
nished with a ball of brass, the noise of which was 
intended to terrify their foes, together with a short 
sword and a dagger. By degrees they approached 
the hill, and were about to commence their attack, 
when a champion of gigantic size, his body remark- 



THE BRONZE CUPID. 235 

able for its deeply indented figures of the sun, 
moon, and celestial bodies, with rude representa- 
tions of wild beasts, urged his chariot halfway up 
the ascent, and leaping on the ground brandished 
his spear and sword, and with gestures of insult 
defied the Romans to the conflict. 

Our two friends beheld the challenger with all 
the indignation of the Roman soldier ; both were 
eager to avenge the insult and vindicate the honour 
of the Roman arms ; a friendly contest arose as 
to which should undertake the championship ; and 
it was only at the request of Apronius, to be 
allowed this opportunity of retrieving his honour, 
that his friend yielded to his wish of engaging in 
the combat. 

The Roman disdaining to fight on unequal 
terms, and perceiving his opponent to be destitute 
of armour, threw off the galea, lorica, and ocrea, 
the helmet, coat of mail, and leg-armour, which 
were the appropriate panoply of the Roman soldier, 
and descending the steep with hasty steps, indi- 
cated his wish to accept the proffered challenge. 

The combat was but of brief duration. The 
native, from a short distance, hurled his javelin at 
his foe, which the latter turned aside with his 
buckler, and joined in close contest with his 
antagonist. The rude sword of the latter proved an 
inadequate match to the sharper gladius of hisRoman 



236 THE BRONZE CUPID. 

foe ; nor was the skill of the barbarian commen- 
surate with that of his better-disciplined opponent, 
who was also protected by his ample buckler from 
the assaults of his antagonist. The victory, which 
was not for a moment doubtful, was soon decided 
in favour of the Roman champion, who, by a well- 
aimed blow of his powerful blade, clove in sunder 
the head of his assailant. The issue was marked 
with loud howlings by the natives, and hailed with 
shouts of triumph by the Roman host, who now 
pressed impetuously down the hill. The archers, 
agreeably to the orders of their chief, aimed not 
their shafts at the warriors in the chariots, but at 
the horses which drew the vehicles, which, thus 
galled and frantic with pain, plunged back on their 
own hosts, and carried confusion into their army. 
The Roman leader perceiving this disorder, ordered 
the trumpets to sound, and the first line, closely 
followed by the second and third, fell impetuously 
on the foe, and completed their discomfiture. This 
easy triumph, though it inflicted a severe loss on 
the Britons, occasioned but a trivial injury to the 
Roman forces. Our two friends were unhurt, and 
at the close of the day messengers arrived at the 
Roman camp requesting the usual permission to 
bury the dead, and offering hostages and terms of 
peace. These, after some slight difficulty and delay, 
were granted, and the army returned to its encamp- 



THE BRONZE CUPID. 237 

ment on the height. The nocturnal absence of 
Apronius was pardoned, or rather was overlooked 
or forgotten in the victory to which he had so 
largely contributed. The following day and that 
which succeeded were passed in celebrating the 
victory — in rendering the last rites to the victims 
of the battle—or in instituting martial games and 
contests in honour of their memory. The time, 
however, passed sadly and slowly to the young 
Apronius, who longed for the approach of the third 
evening, and on its arrival, hastened to the ap- 
pointed meeting-place with the British fair one. 

He found her at the usual spot, seated in an 
attitude of grief at the foot of the accustomed oak. 
With eager steps the youth bounded to salute her. 

"Well met," he exclaimed; "how true, how 
faithful is my island love ! and now, fair one, I 
bring thee glad tidings : the wars are done — thy 
countrymen, routed hi an easy victory, have yielded 
to the Roman power, and we shall shortly return 
to our beloved Italy. Will my fair one, my pre- 
server, accompany her lover to Rome ?" 

She shook her head in mournful silence. 

" Nay, nay, o'ercome this repugnance, and I will 
make thee rich, joyous, and happy. Thou shalt 
doff these poor garments, once the coverings of 
wild beasts, and, clothed in purple and fine linen, 
shalt rival the matrons of Rome in dress, as thou 



238 THE BRONZE CUPID. 

already excellest them in beauty. I am prosperous 
and happy. We have achieved a decisive triumph, 
to which I have mainly contributed ; the wars are 
now ended. But why so melancholy ? True, 'tis 
thy friends are discomfited ; but this will but sooner 
bring the peace thou wishest to enjoy." 

" But/' exclaimed the maiden, in a sorrowful 
tone, " our nation hath suffered dreadfully ; many 
a widow weeps for her husband ; many an orphan 
its father ; many a maiden her lover slain : a noble 
youth, the proudest, the tallest, the bravest of our 
warriors, hath fallen by the Roman champion ! " 

" Of that crime, I, 'tis true, am guilty. I 
accepted the challenge of the barbarian, and did 
what any soldier in our legion would have done ; 
I slew the champion of your host in single combat." 

The maiden started to her feet, exclaiming, 
" And is it so ? My fears, then, are verified ; I 
dreaded, yet doubted, the truth. All is now over 
between us, I saved thy life, stranger, and thou 
hast murdered mine. Know that our champion 
was my brother ! Noblest and bravest of our youth, 
he defied the power of thy hosts ; but fell, alas, by 
thy hands ! " And she burst into tears, and wept 
long and bitterly. 

In vain did her lover seek to console her, and 
to palliate his conduct. " Away ! " she exclaimed ; 
" remove thy hand ; there's blood upon it ; the 



THE BRONZE CUPID. 239 

blood that flows through these veins has been shed 
by thee, and yet thou wouldst talk to me of love. 
I have prayed, moreover, as thou desiredst me, to 
thy little god, whose image thou hast given me, 
but he hears or heeds not my prayers. See, here 
is thine idol, stranger, and thus I cast him from me, 
and with him thy pernicious and fatal love ! " And 
thus saying, she threw the relic into the thickest 
of the wood. 

Finding it impossible to soothe her, he requested 
her . to meet him on the morrow night, when her 
feelings would, he hoped, be more calmed and 
soothed. Apparently softened by his entreaties, 
she replied, "Yes, I will meet thee, but at another 
spot than this; I will truly be there, and will 
surely meet thee if thou darest to come. And 
now, as thou saidst before, one kiss and one fare- 
well!" 

He bent forward to embrace her, when, clasping 
him with her left hand, she snatched with her 
right the dagger from his girdle, and, ere he could 
prevent her fatal purpose, plunged it in her bosom, 
murmuring as she sank a faint farewell ! 

Vainly did the youth attempt to staunch the 
flow of blood, and stay the fleeting life ; in a few 
moments she ceased to breathe ; and gently he laid 
her on the turfy bed, and retraced his steps towards 
the camp. Yet, ere he departed, he endeavoured 



240 THE BRONZE CUPID. 

to discover the bronze image of Cupid which she 
had thrown into the thicket, but it eluded his 
research; and, after being imbedded in. the earth 
during a lapse of ages, it was found, as is well 
known to many of the visitors of this Museum, 
a short time since, and is now immortalized by 
being placed among so interesting and valuable a 
collection ! 



CONCLUSION 



SCHULTZE'S POEM OF CECILIA. 



From the German. 



[Ernst Schultze was a youth of enthusiastic character, and of dis- 
tinguished poetic genius, who having lost the object of his attach- 
ment by death, consecrated to her memory a poem, entitled, after 
her name, " Cecilia," of which the following are the concluding 
stanzas.] 



And now 'tis o'er, the theme so fond, so dear, 

It for a while forbade e'en me to mourn ; 

I vowed the task, while weeping o'er thy bier, 

And finished now I place it on thine urn. 

Its faithful mirror hath depicted clear 

The grief, the joy, that I have silent borne ; 

Accept the gift that, passing dear to me, 

Hath been my all of bliss, because it told of thee ! 

M 



242 CECILIA. 

And now as seamen, that on some fair shore, 

Seek for awhile the bright and blooming strand ; 

And many a goodly town, and many a tower 

They see extending o'er that happy land ; 

And then embark once more, and hour by hour, 

Behold the prospect fade, that late they scann'd- — 

So in the darkening distance do I see 

The dream of song depart that told of love and thee ! 

Such as thou wast in life I strove to paint, 

To sketch each loveliest charm and grace refined, 

But found expression all too weak and faint, 

To tell thy gifts of person and of mind. 

Yet as I strove, thine angel form, sweet saint, 

Beam'd from the skies, and cheer'd with accents kind ; 

Alas ! that now my soothing task is o'er, 

Again, lost love, I'm called to part with thee once more ! 

Three years have passed in this delicious dream, 

For though the tempest of the time ran high, 

And wafted wildly on life's stormy stream, 

Through peace and war my bark flew quickly by ! 

I heeded not the storm's electric gleam, 

Nor fear'd the waters, though they met the sky, 

For in each hour that threaten'd death to me, 

My soul's true compass turn'd alone, lost love, to thee ! 

For thou hast been my single guiding star, 
The only light of love o'er me that shone ; 
For thee I girded on the blade of war, 
And every thought of peace was thine alone ! 



CECILIA, 243 

And while rny heart wore sorrow's deepest scar, 
I suffer 'd all, nor breath'd a single moan, 
And only fear'd lest fate should chance destroy 
This votive song, rny sad, but still my only joy. 

And now, since thou hast gained thy throne on high, 

And I, no more by earthly ties confin'd, 

Have only sought from life and joy to fly, 

My sole companionship with thee to find ! 

Full many a faithless friend hath pass'd me by, 

Full many a heart grown cold that once was kind, 

And if I bore what forced my heart to break, 

And joy 'd to bear it all, 'twas but for thy sweet sake ! 

As vases once that softest perfumes hold, 

Retain in after-times those odours sweet ; 

As clouds, that suns of evening deck with gold. 

Are bright, while round them shades of darkness meet ; 

As rivers far to sea their currents hold, 

Though ocean-tides against them vainly beat — 

So this poor heart, that once hath been thy shrine, 

Shall now be filled alone with thoughts of thee and thine! 



M 2 



ALINE. 



I was inspecting^ a short time since, the studio 
of a friend^ who having retired from the exercise of 
his profession as a painter, still retains the memen- 
tos of his art in the shape of sketches of foreign 
as well as home scenery, character, and costume, 
when my attention was excited by an exquisitely 
finished picture, representing a French peasant 
girl, who, overwhelmed with grief, is appealing 
with a look of exceeding humility to a religieuse 
in whose aspect a certain expression of severity, 
perhaps of displeasure, is mingled with an air of 
pity and commiseration. On inquiring into the 
subject, my friend kindly furnished me with the 
particulars of the following tale. 



ALINE. 245 

Aline Courtois was the child of a widowed 
mother, whom she chiefly supported by her labours 
as a lacemaker, and many a weary day, and still 
more weary night, did the young and patient girl 
toil at her monotonous employ, to procure for her 
aged and declining parent the little luxuries to 
which in better days she had been accustomed. 

Aline was a general favourite. Her habits of in- 
dustry, and her attention to her parent, would 
have alone ensured her universal esteem ; and to 
these advantages were added the attractions of a 
figure which, though petite, was extremely grace- 
ful and pleasing, and a face which, without being 
strikingly handsome, presented in its healthful 
and blooming tints, its air of feeling and intel- 
ligence, and in particular, in the animated yet 
gentle expression of the eye, many of the most 
attractive charms of youth and loveliness. And 
then Aline was si bonne et si sage ; her com- 
panions of her own sex all loved as much as they 
admired her, and the young men were only emu- 
lous to show her attentions and to win her favour. 
At the little fete, or the Sunday dance, each was 
anxious to be her cavalier ; and happy was he who 
could lure her for a while from the side of her 
mother, to whom she was unremitting in her atten- 
tions, and gain her as his partner in the waltz or 
the quadrille, 



246 ALINE. 

Among those who strove to win her smiles, none 
seemed more constant in his devoirs, or more favour- 
ably received by their object, than the youthful 
Theodore Bellon, a commis in a house from which 
Aline frequently received commissions in the way 
of her employment. It is true that she was too 
young and too much occupied with her parent to 
cherish in herself or to encourage in her lover a 
serious passion, while his attentions were paid to 
her rather, as the French phrase it, en jeune homme, 
than as the offerings of a serious and permanent 
attachment; yet it was impossible not to perceive 
that a sympathy was growing up between them, 
which might in time ripen to a stronger feeling. 
And many were the friends of Aline who looked 
grave on the matter, and shook their heads when 
any one mentioned the name of Theodore, and 
wished that he was better and more deserving, for 
the general opinion was, that she was too good to 
be his wife. 

True, he was handsome, singularly handsome ; 
his colossal height and masculine air and looks con- 
trasted strongly with the slight form and delicate 
features of his young and gentle amante ; but then 
he was so volage, so thoughtless ; his mind was acute, 
and his heart was kind ; but he was thoughtless 
and desultory, if not dissipated. While engaged at 
his occupation, it is true, he was sufficiently atten- 



ALINE. 247 

live; but the moment he was released from the 
comptoir, he flew to the cafe and the billard, where 
his time was passed amid worthless companions 
and idle pursuits, 

It would be both untrue and unjust towards 
Aline to say that she perceived not the faults of 
her lover, but unhappily she saw* them only to 
overlook or to excuse them. Of all the gentle and 
hallowed sympathies of woman,, there is perhaps 
none which is more congenial with her nature, yet 
certainly none more frequently destructive of her 
happiness and her peace, than the disposition to 
which she is ever prone to invest the whole of her 
feelings in the object of her attachment, and to 
palliate or forgive those faults, which her better 
reason cannot but condemn. How often is the re- 
monstrance of friends urged, yet urged in vain, to 
convince her that the being on whom she has fixed 
her choice is unworthy of her love ; that there is 
between them none of that union of mind and 
feeling, of that sympathy of tastes and pursuits, of 
sorrows and of joys, without which happiness must 
be hoped for in vain ; and how often does her own 
judgment accord with these dictates of friendship 
and of prudence only to be over-ruled by the 
stronger and more prevailing impulse of her affec- 
tions, Aline, unknown to others, possibly even to 
herself, had conceived for Theodore an attachment 



248 ALINE. 

which, if Jt blinded her not to his failings, at least 
induced her to forget them ; in a word she loved 
him; chastely, delicately, yet still fervently loved 
him; and when was woman's love capable of being 
destroyed, or possibly even diminished, by the 
mere imperfections of its object ? 

Among the various friends whom the gentleness 
and filial piety of Aline had attached to her, was 
the still young and accomplished and beautiful 
Rosalie de Villette, who, having been deprived of 
her mother at an age when others are just entering 
on the gay scenes of the world, had determined on 
quitting them, and had exchanged the allurements 
of society for the solitude of a cloister, by becoming 
an inmate of the convent of Grey Sisters, at Arras. 
Gentle and amiable herself, she felt a powerful 
sympathy for these qualities in Aline, whom she 
invited to pay her visits, whenever her leisure per- 
mitted, and by judicious advice to herself, and 
kind attentions and occasional presents to her 
mother, won the love and confidence of the affec- 
tionate girl. 

Matters thus went on ; the quiet drama of 
Aline's life proceeded, unmarked by any incident of 
grave importance, undisturbed, save by the natural 
anxiety arising from the declining state of her 
mother's health, or by the occasional indiscretions 
of Theodore, who, we regret to say, far from 



ALINE. 249 

exhibiting any amelioration of character or con- 
duct, only became more and more thoughtless and 
imprudent, and not unfrequently was betrayed into 
escapades, which, though of no very serious moment, 
called for the interposition of Aline, while they had 
also the effect of convincing her how strong was 
the interest which she felt in his well-being. 

Meanwhile an unforeseen event of considerable 
importance had taken place. The revolution of 
July had changed the political relations of France. 
An augmentation of the army was determined on, 
and a numerous conscription was ordered. Aline 
heard the intelligence with an emotion which sur- 
prised herself, for she knew that Theodore was 
liable to the fatal chance, and thus became, perhaps 
for the first time, seriously aware of the interest 
with which he had inspired her. The dreaded day 
of the tirage arrived ; the young men assembled 
at the Mairie, around the urn of fate, which, 
on this occasion, was represented by the cocked 
hat of Monsieur le Maire ; himself an ancien 
militaire, to draw the important lots which were 
to decide their future destination. And with 
what different sentiments did they approach the 
ordeal : the greater part, with the true feelings of 
Frenchmen, looked forward to prospects of novelty 
and glory, and victory and renown ; a few viewed 
the charm with apprehension and dismay ; while 

m 2 



250 ALINE. 

some regarded the scene with an expression of at 
least assumed indifference, an air of careless quiet, 
and even pleasure, which was perhaps little in 
accordance with their real emotions. 

Among the latter number was Theodore ; he 
put on an appearance of self-possession and ease, 
which it evidently cost him much to maintain, 
traversed the apartment with hurried steps, and 
when the appel came on, and he was called, 
hasted to the hat and drew his name ; alas ! it 
was one of those destined for the depart, and 
Theodore beheld himself about to be torn from 
his home and his Aline, 

The intelligence of the destiny of her lover 
speedily reached her. At first she was over- 
whelmed by the fatal news, yet soon recovered 
sufficient self-possession to contemplate the cala- 
mity with calmness, and to take measures to avert 
it. Her earliest proceeding was to see Theodore ; 
but when she did so, her regrets were sadly in- 
creased by finding him elevated with wine, to 
which he had flown as the only escape from his 
feelings. 

She entered the apartment with eager steps, yet 
with downcast eyes, and anxiously inquired if the 
fatal intelligence were true. 

" pour ga, ouiT said her lover, " I must e'en 
go — and leave thee, ma pauvre Aline /" 



ALINE. 251 

" But is there no resource, no hope ?" she 
asked, eager, like every child of misfortune, to find 
if possible a way of escape from her calamity. 

" pour fa, non, faut obeir a Vhonneur, tu 
sais" and under the influence of wine, he began to 
sing vociferously — - 

" Allons, enfans, de la patrie, 
Le jour de gloire est arrive !" 

"Mais encore done, cher Theodor" said the affec- 
tionate girl, " there is a resource. Un rempla^ant 
dis done. Little Bernard, the tpicier, tells me he 
has found a substitute, and why not thou ?" 

" Ah via ce que cest ; c petit matin la ; he is 
not tall enough for a drummer-boy, and he'll get a 
remplacant for almost nothing; maispour moi } cest 
une autre affaixe; they would make a grenadier of 
me ; a substitute would cost 500 or 600 francs, 
et tu sais Men, pour moi, je riai pas tant de sous. 
Faut partir alors, — que veux-tu done V and he 
was about finishing the couplet which she had 
interrupted before. 

But even he was melted and subdued, when the 
gentle girl, twining her fair arms around his neck, 
and laying her small head in his bosom, burst into 
a fit of wild, irrepressible sorrow. Recovering 
slowly, she lifted up her still streaming eyes to his, 
and inquired— 



252 ALINE. 

" Comment ! cinq ou six cent francs, dis-tu ? c'est 
beaucoup, cest trop" 

" Dame ! jsais bien que cest trop, mais q'veux- 
tu toi ; on na pas des hommes pour des chansons /" 

" Et tu nas men?" she inquired, in a tone of 
despair. 

"Pas un Hard," he replied, with a mournful 
shake of the head. 

" Mais, mon Dieu, que f aire?" she exclaimed; 
mais dis done, Theodor, ecoute un instant;" and she 
placed her small hand on her lover's arm, to win 
attention to her words. " I have some money, a 
little, very little sum in the Caisse d'epargne, 
which I had placed there unknown to pauvre 
maman; it was intended to provide for her last 
illness, and her interment ; for," she wept as she 
spoke, "at her age, and with her infirmities, I can- 
not hope to be blest with her very long. Now I will 
take this sum, will save more, will work day and 
night to increase it, will apply to my friends, will — " 

But the feelings of Theodore, who was by no 
means destitute of generosity, revolted at such a 
step. " Comment, mon Aline, dost thou take me 
for a lache like that, to rob thee of thy earnings, 
and take the money thou hast saved for thy poor 
mother, and spend it to save me from becoming a 
a brave, and perhaps an officier ? " 

But mild and gentle as Aline ever was, she on 



ALINE 253 

this occasion evinced a firmness of purpose, and a 
determination of conduct, which all the remon- 
strances of her lover were insufficient to overcome. 
She assured him that expostulation was vain, that 
her plans were fixed and unalterable, that she 
intended forthwith applying to his employer to 
request him to become responsible to the autho- 
rities for a substitute (gar ant), and that if even 
500 francs were required, she despaired not of 
raising the amount in the course of two months, 
the time allowed by the regulations of the service 
for that purpose. 

She then left her lover, conjuring him to take no 
more wine, and leave her to make her own arrange- 
ments. " Plus de vin } et laisse moi /aire, mon 
Theodor" were her last words as she imprinted a 
parting kiss on his flushed and heated cheek. 

Aline retired to her humble home, and passed 
a sleepless night in deploring the calamity which 
had overtaken her lover and herself, and devising 
plans for averting it. And now, in fact, it w r as that 
?he felt all the severity of the infliction, all the diffi- 
culty of her situation. Who, indeed, among us has 
not found that the moment of affliction itself is less 
severe than those which either precede or follow it ! 
When called on to pass through the fiery trial, we 
summon our resolution and strengthen our energies 
to the task, and often endure it with a courage and a 



254 ALINE. 

fortitude which surprise even ourselves: but it is in 
the seasons of solitude, the long hours of meditation, 
that we feel the full weight of our calamity, and 
bewail the difficulties of our lot, — as the gay and 
gallant soldier braves the dangers of the battle, but 
sinks beneath the sufferings and privations of the 
march and the bivouac, and all the tedious and 
wasting endurances of the long campaign. 

When Aline reclined on her pillow, and contem- 
plated the sum necessary for her lover's release, her 
heart sank within her, as she felt the all but impos- 
sibility of achieving the object; the sum was so 
large, her earnings so few and small, while from 
Theodore himself, owing to his habits of impru- 
dence, no assistance could be hoped — all, she felt, 
must depend on herself. With that energy, how- 
ever, which is ever the characteristic of a virtuous 
mind, and a worthy purpose, she determined not 
to sink under these difficulties, but rather to re- 
double her exertions, in order, if possible, to ac- 
complish the end. " At least, I will endeavour to 
save him," was her last resolve, as with a prayer to 
the Virgin and the saints she resigned herself to 
repose. Early next morning she rose, and went 
on her mission of love. Her first visit was to the 
comptoir of M. B — , the employer of Theodore, 
to whom she recounted the sad story of his 
having become a conscript, and her own determi- 



ALINE. 255 

nation, if possible, to procure a remplagant, and 
as a gar ant was necessary, might she entreat that 

M. B would undertake the responsibility; it 

was much to ask, but it was to save one whom 
he had long known, and who had served him with 

fidelity. M..B — might rely on her honour, 

and on that of Theodore ; and — 

She was interrupted by the worthy man, who 
shook his head at her hopes of raising such a sum 
as 500 francs ; yet reflecting, on the other hand, 
that Theodore had some claims on his kindness, 
that the youth would be constantly under his own 
surveillance ; and sharing in that general esteem 
which all who knew Aline cherished for her cha- 
racter, and feeling it impossible to refuse aiding 
her generous resolve, he at once complied with her 
request, and undertook the security required. 

Aline scarcely allowed herself time to thank him 
for his benevolence, but eagerly hastened to her 
only friend, the religieuse of the Grey Convent. 
To her with some difficulty she summoned reso- 
lution to explain the circumstances in which she 
was placed, and the resolution she had adopted 
to save her lover ; but her friend saw much of 
difficulty and objection in the determination which 
poor Aline had overlooked or forgotten. 

" Ma pauvre Aline" said her friend, in whose 
mind the sympathies of youth were mingled with 



25G ALINE. 

the prudence of maturer years ; " think on the 
effort thou art about to make. The sum is large 
beyond thy means of raising ; and I cannot conceal 
that the person for whose benefit it is intended 
has been represented to me as scarcely deserving 
so hard a sacrifice. But voyons, what means hast 
thou of amassing the sum ?" 

Aline briefly detailed her little resources, the 
amount in the Caisse d'epargnes, the sacrifice and 
sale of her little stock of ornaments, some trifles of 
dress, and her own earnings during the ensuing 
two months. 

" But," interposed her friend, " hast thou two 
deposits invested in the bank ? I have heard thee 
speak of but one ; and that thou hast assured me 
was destined as a provision for the illness or the 
last obsequies of thy parent, It is not surely this 
sum which thou wouldst alienate from so sacred 
a purpose !" 

The tears of Aline fell fast, and her hands were 
mechanically clasped together as she answered that 
it was. 

" Against such a disposal," replied her adviser, 
" I should most decidedly object. That deposit 
my Aline must consider sacred, nor can she hope 
that Heaven will bless her exertions if she appro- 
priate to another purpose a sum which she has 
already consecrated as an offering of filial grati- 



ALINE. 257 

tude and piety. Non, mon enfant , be thy arrange- 
ments as they may, this money can form no part of 
thy lover's ransom. Even he, had he the spirit 
of a man, would scorn to extort such a sacrifice, or 
to owe his safety to the perversion of a fund, how- 
ever small and trifling, which is destined to so 
hallowed an object!" 

Aline's heart died within her, as she remembered 
that Theodore himself, unthinking and reckless as 
he was, had repelled such a mode of appropriation; 
and an additional pang was supplied by the still 
small voice of conscience, which whispered in her 
bosom the criminality of resolving, even under the 
exigency of the circumstances in which Theodore 
was placed, to divert from its sacred purpose a fund 
which filial piety and tenderness claimed as their 
own. 

"Be it understood, then," said her counsellor, 
" that the sum reserved for thy mother shall form 
no portion of thy lover's redemption ; this thou 
wilt promise, and I hold thee engaged for the 
performance. But mon arnie has omitted the chief 
source whence the supply ought to be obtained, — - 
the conscript himself,— the young man, how much 
does he supply?" 

And Aline felt a despair which words could not 
express, and which she could only declare by her 
weeping eyes and clasped hands, as she sobbed out 



258 ALINE. 

the confession that he could or would contribute 
nothing ; that owing to the state of destitution, 
occasioned by his desultory habits, it was in vain 
to hope aught from him. 

" It is at this moment of her little history," 
observed my friend, " while she is listening in hope- 
less despair to the remonstrances of the nun, that 
I have chosen to depict her." 

u How," exclaimed her friend, " and would my 
Aline labour beyond her strength, and deprive 
herself of all she possesses, to benefit a person who 
is unable or unwilling to contribute to his own 
redemption and assist himself, but would be in- 
debted for his liberty to the exertions of a gentle, 
and delicate, and devoted girl, who is ready to 
endure all for his sake ? " and she reprobated, in 
no measured terms, the character and conduct of 
such a being. 

Poor Aline could not but feel that the greater 
part, if not the whole, of this censure was de- 
served ; yet her woman's love, — fond, confiding 
to the last, ■ — induced her to undertake, as best 
she could, the defence of her erring lover. True, 
he was thoughtless, she said, imprudent ; but 
then, il avait le coeur si bon, si franc ! and admit- 
ting that he had his faults, yet surely these would 
not be improved by his becoming a soldier, a life 
little calculated to correct idleness or dissipation; 



ALINE. 259 

while by redeeming him from such a career, it 
might be hoped that his character would be im- 
proved, and he would become a worthy member of 
the community ; at least, if her friend saw no other 
difficulty, Aline was disposed to make the trial. 

" My only objection is already stated," replied 
her adviser ; " ma pauvre petite will perhaps de- 
stroy herself for the sake of saving one who is 
unworthy such devotion ; but the Saint e Vierge 
forbid, mon enfant, that I should prevent thy 
charitable efforts. Adieu, then, and may thy good 
work prosper ! " 

Aline slowly and mournfully left the presence 
of her friend, her interview with whom had only 
raised a new, yet she felt a just obstacle, in 
addition to those which had previously existed. 
" Yes," she exclaimed, " I will exert myself, — I 
will, at least, endeavour to save him ; and if he 
has only a heart, he will feel and bless my efforts 
for his redemption." 

At an early opportunity Aline acquainted Theo- 
dore with her resolve, and her gentle and kind 
heart painted, en couleur de rose, the prospects 
of his liberation. M. B — ■ — would be his gar ant, 
that was settled, une affaire finie ; " and I, 
dearest Theodore, will work day and night ; and 
pauvre maman, I hope, will be spared; and thou 
shalt not leave us ; and we will be united, — will be 



260 ALINE. 

happy ;" — and she hid her glowing features in his 
bosom* 

And Theodore was moved, deeply moved, — for 
the moment, — and promised amendment ; but, alas ! 
remembered his promise only while in the presence 
of Aline. When absent from her he but too 
speedily relapsed into his former habits of idleness 
and dissipation. 

Aline, however, followed up her determination 
with all the energy of woman's love. She arose 
before the dawn, and protracted her toil far into 
the night; hoping, wishing, persuading herself, 
that her task would be accomplished, and her 
lover redeemed. 

And at first matters went prosperously, for she 
was skilful at her art, and her light fingers wrought 
with such rapidity and delicacy, that fairy hands 
might have seemed to have lent their aid to her 
tasks ; and a bird in the air had whispered the 
matter, and she received so many commissions 
that her laces were bought from her pillow as soon 
as finished, and were paid, and overpaid, by the 
kindness of those by whom her little enterprise 
was known. Five or six weeks had thus flowed 
on, and Aline's little system of finance presented a 
really favourable appearance, and she relieved the 
tedium of her work by her calculations, and these 
were her reckonings on its results, D'abordy 



ALINE. 261 

there was the produce of her trinkets, — mere use- 
less things; she did not want them, not she, indeed, 
— cent vingt francs , suppose; et alors, she had in 
her possession a pen pres cent francs en bons ecus; 
et puis, in three weeks' time, she should have pour 
cent cin quant e francs work finished and ready ; 
et puis Theodor, if he could raise something, — 
but she had heard that he was still thoughtless and 
trifling, and she feared she could expect nothing 
from him, — but then the bon Dieu, and the Sainte 
Vierge, and all the saints, would aid her, and she 
should raise the sum without touching the deposit 
saved for her mother ; and she must, yes, she 
would succeed, and be happy ! 

But alas ! this prosperous state of things was 
not destined to continue ; and just as the close of 
the term approached, her mother w r as seized with 
sudden and alarming indisposition, and Aline was 
forced to quit her work and attend beside her 
parent's couch; a duty which her filial feelings alone 
would have prompted her to fulfil, but which was 
rendered indispensable by the habits of the invalid, 
who, long accustomed to the gentle attentions of 
Aline, would suffer no other attendant near her 
couch, and w T ould take no medicine or nourish- 
ment save that administered by her hands. 

By the vigilant attention of Aline, her parent 
was again restored ; but the interruption of her 



262 ALINE. 

usual toils completely disturbed the projects of the 
gentle and patient girl, On her mother's recovery, 
she flew to her labours with redoubled eagerness ; 
but, alas ! her constitution had been rudely shaken 
by anxiety and labour ; her hands refused their 
office, her eyes were no longer able to trace the 
filaments of her task, nor her weak and fragile 
frame to support even the effort of sitting uninter- 
ruptedly at her work. She became seriously, 
alarmingly ill, and her malady was increased by 
the regret she felt at being compelled to abandon 
her exertions, and to behold her dearly-cherished 
hopes destroyed when on the eve of completion. 
But there w r as no resource ; a fever raged in her 
veins, pains of excruciating anguish seized her 
head, and threatened to drive reason from its seat. 
And time passed on amid these sufferings, and 
the fatal day of Theodore's term approached. So 
nearly had she arrived at the object of her wishes, 
that she could have completed the amount 
required, by adding to it the sum reserved for her 
mother in the Caisse d'epargne ; but this step she felt 
herself forbidden to take. Her friend was right; it 
was a sacred deposit — an offering of filial affection 
— poor, indeed, and small, compared with the debt 
of gratitude w T hich she owed to her parent ; but 
sacred, consecrated, given as an offering to duty 
and affection, which she had promised never to 



ALINE. 263 

appropriate, and which no necessity should induce 
her to violate. 

And day after day wore on, and the fatal term 
drew near, and Theodore, she heard, w r as careless 
and idle, and seemed as willing to go as to remain, 
and the medecin pronounced her worse ; for her 
anxiety increased with the approach of that period 
to which she looked forward with so much dread. 
And, alas ! it came and passed away ; and it was 
impossible to conceal from Aline the dire intelli- 
gence that Theodore had departed. 

This cruel annihilation of her hope, this frustra- 
tion of an object to which she had devoted her 
care, her health, her life, overpowered her slight 
remaining strength; she sank rapidly, in a few 
days her friends were summoned to her couch, 
to receive her last farewell ; and mournful indeed 
was the aspect of that sad sick-room and its sor- 
rowing inmates. By the pillow of the sweet sufferer 
sat her parent, herself oppressed with age and 
sickness, yet forgetting all her own afflictions in 
the hope of ministering to the wants, and soothing 
the sorrows of her departing child ; at the opposite 
side was the religieuse, clasping in her hand the 
thin attenuated fingers of the dying girl, and lifting 
her fine eyes to heaven in the attitude and act of 
prayer. On a sudden a noise was heard on the 
stair, the door was rapidly yet noiselessly opened, 



261 ALINE. 

and Theodore, in the guise of a conscript, for he 
indeed was the intruder, rushed to the couch only 
in time to behold the closing scene. 

" Mon Aline ! " he exclaimed, shocked at the 
sad alteration of her face and looks ; " what, 
shall we lose thee, sweet one ? — No, no ; — look up, 
my love, and live for thy mother, and for me ! " 

As on hearing his voice she lifted her pale face 
from its pillow, she first caught sight of his uniform. 
" My fears, then, are true, 5 ' she exclaimed ; (i thou 
art a soldier, my Theodore, and I have laboured 
and loved in vain ;" and turning from the unwilling 
spectacle, she plunged her face in her pillow, and 
wept aloud. 

" No," he eagerly exclaimed ; " no, my Aline, I 
am no soldier now. Some angel of goodness last 
evening sent my ransom, and with it the intel- 
ligence of thy malady. I have marched all night 
to see thee, to bid thee hope, and live, and be 
happy." 

But the dying girl shook her head as she mourn- 
fully ejaculated, " Too late! too late ! " 

" Not so ; not so ;" ejaculated the repentant 
youth; "live; for my sake, live! O my Aline, 
what misery have I not occasioned thee ; what 
retribution do I not owe thee ! Live, that thy 
Theodore may make thee at least some atonement, 
and win thy forgiveness, thy love ! " 



ALINE. 265 

A sweet yet mournful smile illumined her faded 
features as she gently whispered, " My forgiveness, 
Theodore, thou hast it now; I pardon and love 
thee as I have ever loved." But she enquired, as 
her voice grew weaker, " Thy ransom, Theodore — 
who — who ?"- — and she paused from exhaustion. 

On this point he could afford no information, 
but her own acute though failing powers furnished 
the truth, as, turning to the religieuse, and pressing 
her hand within her wasted fingers, " 'Tis thy 
work, dear and only friend," she feebly said ; "poor 
Aline gives her thanks; and Theodore and dear 
maman thank thee too — and more could I say — but 
— but — speech is painful, and my eyes grow dim ;" 
then feebly grasping in her own the hand of her 
mother, of Theodore, and her friend, and raising 
them to her lips, she impressed on each in turn a 
faint but burning kiss, faltered out a blessing on 
all, sank back on her pillow ; and, with the words, 

Theodor, pardon" her gentle spirit fled ! 



WITH A NOSEGAY. 



I ering thee flowers ! — for they resemble tliee 
In many a gift and grace ; like thee they breathe 
Of beauty and of bliss ; and round them wreathe 

All thoughts and joys that gentlest, holiest be ! 

I bring thee flowers !— for in. their forms I see 

Thy own sweet charms reflected — youth and bloom ; 
And beauties that thy face and form illume. 

Endeared to all, but dearest far to me ! 

I bring thee flowers ! — what ofF'ring could I find 
So meet for one so blest and fair as thou ? 
Their lovely tints outshone by thy soft brow, 

Their odours sweet exceeded by thy mind ! 

To Beauty's self I come, from Beauty's bowers, 

Accept their gift and mine ; — sweet one, I bring thee 
flowers ! 



DREAMS. 



" Nee pes nee caput uni 
Reddatur fo raise. "< — Horace. 

; There's no making head or tail of em." 

Free Hamiltonian Translation. 



Does any one know of a bigger bore, 

Than the horrid bore of dreaming ? 
To be tumbled and toss'd the whole night o'er, 

Perplexing, worrying, scheming ? 
As if 'twere not enough, the while 'tis light, 

To be harass'd and worried double ; 
But a man must be plung'd all the blessed night 

In seas of boundless trouble ! 

Scarce can I venture at night to lay 

My head on its weary pillow ; 
When Fancy bids me awake and away, 

Far, far, over land and billow ! 
And we fly with stronger and swifter wings, 

Than e'er witch or wizard flew ; 
And see more wild and wondrous things 

Than enchantment ever knew ! 
n2 



268 DREAMS. 

I haste where in Zembla's halls of ice 

Stern Winter holds his throne ; 
And at Fancy's call, I am back in a trice 

To the realms of the burning zone ! 
And now I roam by the sunny stream 

Of the Rhone, or the Guadal quiver ; 
Or wander, transported in Fancy's dream, 

On the banks of far Swan River ! 

I'm cross— I'm pleased — I'm gay — I'm sad — 

I sorrow and I thrive ; 
I'm well — I'm ill — I'm wild — I'm mad — 

I'm dead — and I'm buried alive ! 
And I struggle and gasp for vital air, 

Till with pain and madness haunted, — 
I pray to die, with that horrid prayer, 

Which fears vjhat it asks may be granted I 

Instead of a bachelor, free from strife, 

I have married my own first cousin ; 
I've a smoking house, and a scolding wife, 

And of squalling brats a dozen ! 
I'm learning the flute at the risk of my lungs, 

With a patience most deserving ; — 
And I'm fagging away at the unknown tongues, 

Taking lessons of Parson Irving ! 

I'm requested to play with my old aunt Prim, 
What she calls a friendly rubber ; 

And an Esquimaux begs that I'll dine with him, 
At their lord mayor's feast, on blubber ! 



DREAMS. 269 

I receive a note from my lady fair, 

And seai'd with her signet-ring ; 
But when I open the billet rare, 

'Tis signed by — -Muster Swing ! 

Old Mrs. Tims's youngest girl, 

So people say, is pretty ; — 
She has sweet blue eyes, and teeth of pearl, 

And the young men think her witty ! 
So I fell in love with Sarah Tims, 

Without any more suggestion ; 
And to complete the chain of whims, 

As quickly popt the question ; 

The lady looked up, and the lady looked down. 

On her shoe and her white silk stocking ; — 
And she said that if her mamma should frown, 

She feared 'twould be vastly shocking ! — 
So I flew to mamma, on my purpose rife, 

But before I could get her answer, — 
I'd been married a year, run away from my wife, 

And gone off with an opera dancer ! 

I've been all that's wrong, from singeing Long, 

To Thurtell, Burke, and Corder ; — 
And the night before last I was tried and cast, 

And was going to be hanged for murder ! 
And curses rung from every tongue, 

Each face wore a dire expression ; 
And I hear men cry, before I die, 

My last speech and confession ! 



270 DREAMS. 

And the clergy conjure me, on life's dark brink, 

To confess my wicked way ; 
And my weak brain turns, till I almost think, 

That I am the thing they say ! — 
So I give one thought, sweet love, on thee, 

And still farther to carry the farce on, 
I own my guilt at the gallows-tree, 

And shake hands with Jack Ketch and the parson ! 

And at length I give the fatal sign, 

'Mid women's shrieks and crying ; 
The bolt is drawn, and loos'd the line, 

And I'm struggling, strangling, dying ! 
But ere my parting soul is loose, 

And to other realms is carried, 
I find my neck in a different noose, — 

And now I am going to be married. 

And my bride has twenty thousand charms 

Of pocket and of person ; 
And what a theme are her wedded arms, 

To write delightful verse on ! 
She's doubtless a being of beauty and grace, 

An all- enchanting creature ; — 
But her long white veil so hides her face, 

I can't make out a feature ! 

But to marry a wife whom I never have seen, 

Seems rather beyond a joke, 
And wedding her thus behind a screen, 

Like buying a pig in a poke !— 



DREAMS. 271 

So when to pledge the fatal vow 

We stand before the altar ; 
My spirits sink, and, I scarce know how, 

My courage begins to falter ; 

While she mutters like a solemn dunce, 

In a tone that moves one's laughter, 
Those vows which ladies — promise once — 

And break — their whole lives after ! — • 
But, 'tis done, and I tear the veil aside, 

With eager hand and ready, 
When my worst of fears are verified— 

I have married the pig-faced lady ! 

I have been where torment never ends, 

Where the souls of lost ones be ! 
I have been with music, with books, with friends, 

I have been, sweet love, with thee ! 
Like a seraph, sent from realms above, 

For a moment thou wast given, 
And trouble was changed to bliss and love, 

And my visions were all of heaven ! 

And blissful hopes, and hallowed themes, 

Made all my joys divine ; 
Thou wast the spirit of my dreams, 

And my thoughts were of thee and thine ! 
And do thou but cheer my wild dreams by night, 

And my wilder dreams by day ; — 
And I'll think life's heaviest trials light, 

Let Fate bring what it may ! 



THE RING. 



The unfortunate Conradin, of the house of 
Hohenstaufen, had terminated his course on the 
scaffold, which the hatred of his foes had erected 
for him at Naples ; a similar fate awaited his 
friends and adherents, and nearly all the survivors 
who possessed the means of flight hastened to seek 
in the wilds of nature — in inaccessible mountains 
or deep impenetrable forests — a refuge from the 
persecutions of enmity and revenge. 

Among those who thus fled from the hate of 
their foes, there was perhaps none whose fate 
excited a more lively interest than the young 
Count Giuliano di Cotalto, who sought, amid the 
natural fastnesses of the Abruzzi, a retreat from 
the rage of his pursuers. Of the same age with 
the hapless Conradin, and allied to that unhappy 
prince by ties of strictest friendship, he ceased not 
to mourn his death, and to wait an opportunity to 
avenge his fate ; and thus became particularly 
obnoxious to the ruling powers, who set a price on 
his head, and left no means untried of ensnaring 



THE RING. 273 

his person within their power. But Count Julian 
was brave, active, and intrepid ; protected by the 
almost impenetrable nature of the region to which 
he had retreated, he defied alike the power and 
ingenuity of his persecutors, and evaded all their 
endeavours to deprive him of liberty or of life. 

Here, amid the wdldest and most savage scenes, 
surrounded by companions whom the same neces- 
sity had driven to seek the same refuge, he 
exchanged the delights of the city and the court 
for the seclusion and danger of the outlaw's life ; 
while a deeper pang was added to his sorrows in 
being forced from the object of his attachment, the 
young and beautiful Bianca, his cousin, the only 
daughter of his maternal uncle, the Marchese di 
Pignatelli, who, having embraced the opposite 
party, resided at Naples, guarded by the protection, 
and favoured with the friendship of the dominant 
power. 

No great interval had elapsed after the expul- 
sion of Count Julian, when the Marchese was 
summoned, by the illness of a relation, to visit 
Ortona, a town, the road to which lay partly 
through the Abruzzi district, and traversed some 
of its most lonely and wildest passes. The dangers 
of such an expedition would, under other circum- 
stances, have deterred the Marchese from attempt- 
ing the journey; but the illness of his aged relative 

n3 



274 THE RING, 

admitted neither hesitation nor delay : she had 
forwarded an urgent entreaty that she might again 
behold the Marchese and his daughter, and then, 
and not before, her missive added, should she be 
enabled to close her eyes in peace. 

No course remained but to undertake the dreaded 
expedition, and the Marchese, with his daughter, 
set out, attended by a whole cavalcade of attend- 
ants, servants, and, above all, by a numerous body of 
the retainers of his house, fully armed and equipped, 
to repulse the attacks of the outlaws, should such 
be made. 

The journey proceeded prosperously enough, till 
on the third evening from leaving the capital they 
reached a defile of most fearful and suspicious 
character. Two vast overhanging rocks joined 
ere while together, but rent in sunder by one of 
those convulsions of which this region bears so 
many traces, still approached each other at their 
upper verge so closely as almost to shut out the 
light of day, leaving a narrow, rough, and insecure 
defile as the only pathway between them ; while 
their sides, hollowed out by various fissures of the 
rock, and overgrown with shrubs, afforded means 
of covert and ambush, protected and concealed by 
which a small band of assailants might arrest the 
progress of a mighty host. The Marchese was 
a soldier, an old experienced leader ; he saw the 



THE RING, 275 

difficulty and danger of the pass, and feared not 
for himself, but for the lovely and precious treasure 
which he was about to place in peril. 

But there was no time for delay ; the leading 
soldiers of the cavalcade had already entered the 
path, through which they were able to advance only 
in single files. Those in front had proceeded some 
distance in safety, the whole train was now en- 
tangled in the ravine, when an attack, fierce and 
furious, and directed from unseen assailants, was 
made at once on the front, centre, and rear of the 
procession. Arrows, spears, and darts, were dis- 
charged ; masses of stone loosened from the sides 
of the rock were hurled on the intruders ; while 
the attacking party were so hidden in the clefts of 
the precipices, or so screened by the trees and 
bushes, as to remain completely obscured from 
view, and sheltered from retaliation. Several of 
the party were levelled to the earth ; many of the 
horses were wounded and terrified by the discharge 
of missiles ; and an arrow piercing the noble palfrey 
which bore the lady Bianca, the affrighted animal 
plunged madly forward, while its alarmed burthen 
screamed wildly in terror, and her agonized father 
urged his courser onwards, vainly striving to catch 
the rein, w T hich she had dropped, and calling wildly, 
" Bianca; oh, save my Bianca, my beloved, my 
lost, my sacrificed child ! " Scarcely had that name 



276 THE RING. 

reverberated among the rude rocks and wild recesses 
of this savage scene, than a louder cry re-echoed 
over the noise and tumult of the fight. A voice 
noble and commanding, ordered a cessation of 
arms, and the figure of a youthful warrior was seen 
standing on a pinnacle of the precipice, and in 
gestures and tones of authority bidding the tempest 
of the attack to cease. It was — yes, it was— Count 
Giuliano, in the garb of an outlaw, ordering his 
associates to suspend their warfare, and spare the 
loved one, whose name had reached his ear. Per- 
ceiving at the same time the danger to which she 
was exposed from the fright of her wounded steed, 
he leaped from crag to crag, from rock to rock, till 
he seized the rein, and stopped the startled animal. 

Ere he could effect this purpose, she had sunk in 
a state of insensibility on the creature's neck, and 
all the cares of the Count, together with those of 
her attendants, were required, ere she could be 
restored to consciousness. 

" Bianca, my own love/' he cried, as at length 
reviving, she slowly and wildly gazed around; 
" awake, and fear not; no evil shall befal thee or 
thine while thy Giuliano is here to protect thee." 

" But oh !" she exclaimed, " in what a guise do 
I behold thee : an outlaw ; thy occupation, vio- 
lence or murder ; thy companions, the outcasts 
of the world." 



THE RING. "rii i 

M Nayj lady; 'tis no time for parley, else could 
I reproach those friends of thine and of thy sire, 
who have shed the blood of our noblest Italian 
youth on the scaffold, or driven them forth as 
wanderers on the earth. But time is precious. 
You are journeying towards Ortona, and purpose 
resting to-night at Lanciano. Thus much our scouts 
had informed me ; thy name alone was unknown, 
or, believe me, no ill should have chanced to thee 
or thine. The way is dreary and dangerous ; you 
are liable to attack from other of our bands ; allow 
me, therefore, to be for some distance your escort." 

The request would have been declined by the 
Marchese, who had now joined the youthful pair, 
but Giuliano urged its expediency, nay, its neces- 
sity, with so much force and clearness, that it was 
found impossible to refuse the offer. 

For a brief, too brief, a space, then, did he 
journey side by side with the object of his love, 
and enjoy one of those delicious interviews, which 
those who love ever find too short, however 
lengthened their duration, and too few and far 
between, however frequent their recurrence. 

They had long passed beyond that part of the 
country which Count Giuliano had described as 
dangerous, and the walls and towers of Ortona 
were seen in the distance, when the Marchese, 
who had before vainly endeavoured to give sundry 



278 THE RING. 

hints, now urged the Count to consult his own 
safety by withdrawing ; and won by the courtesy 
and gallant bearing of his kinsman, expressed in 
lively terms his gratitude for that protection and 
rescue from danger which he had afforded. 

e< I trust, Signor Marchese," said the Count, 
" that all danger is now past, yet I can scarcely 
assure you that you are safe from attack. I 
can, however, furnish you with a safeguard for 
your protection. Will my sweet Bianca," he said, 
" accept a talisman which shall protect her against 
such evil ? Take this ring ; it is the last gift of the 
unhappy Conradin, my regretted friend and master. 
It is composed of emeralds and rubies, shaped, as 
thou seest, in form of that regal crown which he wore, 
alas ! for too brief a space, and is surmounted by the 
holy cross ; while beneath is placed a heart, the image 
of our friendship !" And thus saying, he gently 
took the forefinger of her right hand, and placed 
on it the ring, the brightness and beauty of whose 
tints were only outshone by the dazzling whiteness 
of the skin with which they were contrasted. 

" If attacked," he added, "by any of the bands 
who range these wild districts, you have only to 
show this ring, and you will be secure from insult 
and injury. And, further, if you wish aught of 
Giuliano, send me but this ring, and the summons 
shall be instantly obeyed." 



THE RING. 279 

" Grazie, mille grazie" replied the Marchese, as 
he acknowledged the courtesy of their protector : 
and the fair object of his care, too much agitated 
to express her feelings by words, could only reply 
by the mute but potent eloquence of tears to the 
passionate adieu of Giuliano, as after placing the 
gem on her hand, he raised it gently and reve- 
rentially to his lips, and imprinted on it a kiss of 
fervent adoration. 

The cavalcade passed on without further moles- 
tation or impediment. The Marchese arrived just 
in time to receive the last sighs of his relative, and 
to hear her name his Bianca as her heir. After 
awaiting the obsequies of his friend, the Marchese 
set out on his return, which was accomplished in 
perfect safety, and with no repetition of such an 
accident as had marked its outset. 

Meanwhile the strange and singular adventure 
which had befallen him formed the subject of 
general conversation and remark, and all who 
constituted the escort of the Marchese were loud 
in their praise of the conduct of Giuliano. The 
men could not but admire the soldier-like skill 
and ability with which he availed himself of the 
advantages of his position for attacking the caval- 
cade ; as well as the gallantry and self-devotion 
with which, nimble as the chamois of those rocks, 
he had leaped from point to point to rescue his 



280 THE RING. 

Bianca from danger; while the waiting maids, 
who formed part of the procession, were all ad- 
miration of his form and face, and Bianca could 
hear on all sides nothing but his praise. 

" Such eyes, Marchesina" said little Margaretta, 
the youngest and prettiest of her train ; " such a 
look : fierce and terrible in war, and when frown- 
ing defiance to the men ; but so sweet, so soft, so 
gentle, when he looks at you, Signorina. Well, 
you are formed for each other, and that's the 
truth !" 

On their return to Naples the affair was still 
more noised abroad, and at length reached the 

ears of the Duca di ; who, being on terms 

of intimacy with the Marchese and the Lady 
Bianca, sent a mission requesting to be favoured 
with a sight of the ring, and a narration of the 
adventure of which it was the subject. The 
Marchese requested his daughter to relax so far 
from her usual rule (for she never allowed the ring- 
to leave her finger), as to favour a nobleman so 
highly elevated in rank, and so favoured with 
the confidence of his sovereign, by inspecting the 
jewel; and Bianca, in spite of a secret foreboding, 
which urged her, in this one instance at least, to 
refuse compliance with the wishes of a parent, 
allowed her father to transmit the ring to the 
duke for his inspection. Some days passed away 



THE RING. 281 

without the object being returned, and she could 
not but miss the gem on which she was daily, 
hourly, accustomed to look; nay, she felt certain 
misgivings as to the propriety of having allowed 
it to leave her possession. 

She had even determined to mention the matter 
to her father, and to remonstrate on the detention 
of her treasure, when one morning she heard from 
the high windows of her apartment a noise and 
tumult in the streets, and was about to inquire 
the cause, when Margaretta rushed in, her face in 
a glow of rage, her bright eyes on fire with 
passion. 

" O Signorina /" she exclaimed ; " such a cala- 
mity has happened. The Count Guilia.no is taken 
captive, and led to prison." 

" Giuliano — captive — prison!" w r ere the only 
sounds re-echoed by the horror-stricken girl. 

" Yes, Marchesina, 'tis too true. I saw him 
myself while hastening from mass, looking noble 
though a captive, and proud though bound in 
chains, frowning the same defiance at the insults 
of the mob, as when he so fiercely assaulted our 
procession in the Abruzzi pass." 

" But how," Bianca at length regained compo- 
sure to inquire, " how has he been ensnared ?" 

" In the usual way, Signorina ; a woman is the 
cause. I do believe our precious sex never will 



282 THE RING. 

leave off imitating their mother Eve, and doing 
all the mischief they can, while the world shall 
endure. Cruel, treacherous wretch ! if I had her 
here, I would tear her eyes out; and " — 

But her attention was directed to her unhappy 
mistress, on whose mind the dreadful truth had 
dawned, and who guessed with that fatal certainty 
which so often forebodes evil, that she had been 
made the innocent means of her cousin's destruc- 
tion. Too late she perceived the imprudence of 
which she had been guilty, in allowing the ring to 
pass from her possession ; for she doubted not 
that it had been obtained with a view to entrap 
and betray him. Her fatal forebodings were 
shortly after confirmed ; and a little inquiry suf- 
ficed to convince her, that her father and herself 
had been made the unsuspecting instruments for 
ensnaring and capturing him, and that the ring, 
sent with a pretended message from herself, had 
induced him to repair unattended to a spot where he 
was speedily overpowered, and brought a prisoner 
to the capital. Together with this intelligence, 
she also learned that his hours were numbered ; 
that his trial, a mere mockery and form in those 
days of cruelty and outrage, was fixed to take 
place almost immediately, within the walls of 
his dungeon, which he would quit only for the 
scaffold. 



THE RING. 283 

What intelligence was this for one who loved as 
Bianca loved, to find that herself and her parent 
had been made the tools of a crooked and cruel 
state policy ; had unsuspectingly contributed to the 
destruction of a relative ; in short, that she had 
become the murderess of that being, on whom all 
her hopes of happiness were fixed. The thought 
was madness, and reason could scarce support the 
very reflection. 

Her despair was increased by considering that 
the calamity was utterly hopeless, and admitted of 
neither relief nor consolation. To have attempted 
to soften the hearts of his foes a moment's consi- 
deration convinced her were an endeavour, which 
would have only embittered his fate, or increased 
the sufferings he was destined to undergo. 

One poor consolation alone remained, and this 
her woman's heart, the shrine of native honour, 
and feeling, and truth, prompted her to seek. She 
could, she was aware, readily procure means of 
access to his prison, and she determined to visit 
him there, to explain the cruel, the treacherous 
deceit which had been practised ; to undeceive 
him as to the cause which had led to his captivity 
and his death ; to avow her unalterable love ; to 
breathe a prayer that Heaven would shortly unite 
her to himself in another and a better world ; and, 
if it might be so, to obtain his parting forgiveness ! 



284 THE RING. 

At the hour of midnight did the young and 
timid girl leave the bright and brilliant palazzo of 
her fathers, to seek the fearful gloom and solitude 
of a prison. Her heart sank within her as she 
entered the massive portal ; and as the grating key 
and rattling chain gave her ingress into the abode 
of misery, she shuddered for the fate of one so 
tenderly beloved, so fatally sacrificed, who, she 
knew, would only go from prison to death, and 
leave the darkness of his dungeon for the scaffold. 

After threading innumerable dark and damp 
passages, and traversing what seemed a subterra- 
nean city of despair, she was at length ushered 
into the wretched, deeply sunk dungeon, to which 
w r as consigned the young and gallant, and dearly- 
loved Giuliano. 

With trembling hands, she took the proffered 
lamp from the attendant, and advancing to a heap 
of straw in a remote corner of the cell, she beheld 
the object of which she was in quest — the hapless 
prisoner, stretched in uneasy and unquiet sleep. 

Slowiy and cautiously did she approach the 
slumbering and ill-fated youth, shading the lamp 
with her small hand, lest its light should awaken 
the captive; and treading with the lightness of a 
sylph, lest her footstep should disturb his sleep. 

As she bent over him, she shuddered as she 
saw a deep gash extending across his forehead, on 



THE RING. 285 

which it was evident no surgical care had been 
bestowed. The blood uncleansed was clotted over 
the brow 7 , and the wound itself gaped livid, wide, 
and frightful, unprotected, uncovered by any ban- 
dage or other friendly appliance. 

" O Heaven ! he is wounded, and his wounds 
are undressed," she mentally exclaimed ; and look- 
ing on his hands, which were clasped on his breast, 
perceived that they w T ere heavily manacled ; while 
a closer inspection revealed to her that his fetters, 
whether by accident or design, were fastened so 
closely that blood had flowed from the pressure : 
and her anguish was completed, as his lips feebly 
and slowly moved, ejaculating a reproach to her 
name. 

i ' Falsa, falsa Bianca! " was the exclamation of his 
dreams, and, overwhelmed with grief, she tottered 
towards the wall of the cell to abide his awaking. 

The slumbers of the wretched are brief and 
easily broken, and the light and scarcely audible 
steps of the maiden were sufficient to arouse him 
from his sleep. Her heart beat fearfully when she 
heard his fetters clank as he turned on his couch 
of straw 7 ; but still more terrific were its vibrations 
when, perceiving her, he denounced her perfidy 
and upbraided her cruelty in coming to view, and, 
as he supposed, to triumph in the misery she had 
occasioned. 



286 THE RING, 

" False, perfidious ! " was his cry, " and art thou 
come to complete thy cruelty by insulting me in 
my misery, and gloating on the ruin thou hast 
wrought ? " 

Bianca essayed to reply ; but, unable to articu- 
late, could only answer with tears. 

" Thou hast still, beautiful but perfidious fiend, 
another joy in store. I have been condemned to 
die by a band of poltroons; any one, nay, any 
three of whom, give me but my good steed and my 
knightly harness, I would have encountered and 
felled to the earth. They have consigned me to 
the scaffold ; and, at to-morrow's noon, thou mayst 
feast thine eye and rejoice thine heart on the 
mangled corse of Giuliano Cotalto, who loved thee, 
false one, but too well ; and whose love thou hast 
so cruelly, so basely repaid." 

As she feebly and faintly attempted to explain, 
he fiercely interrupted her vindication. 

u Nay, add not the guilt of falsehood to the 
crime of treachery. When I had thee in the 
Abruzzi hills, and would have crushed thy weak 
and coward escort as 'twere a nutshell, and thence 
could have borne thee to our mountains, and there 
have extorted as thy ransom what terms of peace 
or pardon I chose ; I fondly, weakly suffered my 
love to overcome my reason, dared the displeasure 
of my associates, and gave a pledge which thou 



THE RING. 287 

hast employed but for my ruin/' — and exhausted 
and wearied he sank again on his pillow of straw. 

Bianca slowiy and painfully collecting herself, 
now commenced the recital of that treachery of 
which she, as well as himself, had been made the 
victim. Bitterly and unsparingly did she reproach 
herself for the negligence with w r hich she had al- 
lowed the ring to depart from her custody. Could 
she have divined the cruel, the treacherous, the 
murderous purpose for which it had been procured, 
never, never would she have parted with it. As it 
was she implored not his forgiveness ; this she 
dared not ask ; but his pity, and his last regret ; 
and, as he gradually became calm and listened to 
her adjurations, she approached nearer to him, 
grasped his passive hand, and kneeling by his 
couch implored Heaven to grant her its pardon, 
and to bestow the further boon of shortly rejoining 
her lover, her victim, in the tomb ! 

The unhappy prisoner softened, affected by the 
undeniable truth of her sad story, raised himself on 
his couch, and clasping the w T eeping girl, bestowed 
his blessing, his forgiveness ! 

The time allowed for their interview had now 
expired, and with many a mutual sob and sigh, 
and oft repeated embrace, the unhappy girl w T as 
separated from her only treasure. 

On the ensuing morning the preparations of 



288 THE RING. 

execution were made on the Piazza. The youth 
and estimable qualities of the condemned excited a 
more than usual interest in his behalf, the crowds 
collected were enormous, and the dread spectacle 
of death had not attracted a more numerous assem- 
blage since the unhappy Conradin himself was the 
hero of its melancholy scene ! 

At noon precisely was the hapless prisoner 
conducted to the scaffold, and as the bell of Santa 
Maria tolled the noon-tide hour, the head of the 
youthful noble rolled a ghastly and lifeless relic on 
the scaffold. And at this hour precisely she who 
had unconsciously been the instrument of his fate 
enregistered herself in the convent of Ursuline 
nuns of Santa Catarina, as a novice ; here she 
soon found the boon she sought ; she lingered in 
sickness and in sorrow through the term of her 
noviciate, and on that day of the following year a 
grave was opened in the cemetery of the convent 
for the reception of the mortal remains of the young 
and beautiful, and ill-fated Bianca ! 



A RYGHTE TREWE STORIE 
OF A WAULKE AND TAULKE 

AEOWTE 

GEOLOGYE ANDE HISTORYE. 



God prosper longe our Ladye Queene, 

Our menne of scyence alle ! 
What pleasynge waulkes, what learnedde taulkes, 

On Sussex Dowries befalle ! 

Mantell, whoe late toe Lewes broughte 

His followers, fonde and trewe ; 
Now clymbed the Steyning hilles, and soughte 
" Fresh fyeldes and pastures newe !" 

And showed againe, o'er vale and hille, 

With learned taulke and toyle, 
The deedes of olde, and older stille, 

The wonders of the soyle ! 

Fyrst, att the ryver halted wee, 

Whyle Mantell toke his stande, 
And tolde the marvelles of the sea, 

And changes of the lande ! 
o 



290 GEOLOGYE ANDE H1STORYE. 

" The insecte smalle," quod he, " the whyle 
Itt flytts among the flowres, 
Thinkes them eternall : do ye smyle ? 
Itts errour is but owres ! 



" Wee, tooe, throughoute lyfe's lyttell daye, 
Looke owre eache tranquil scene, • 
And fondlie thinke 'twill be for aye, 
And soe hath ever bene ! 

" But knowe, thatt once no ryver flowed 
Throughoute these smyling fyeldes ; 
Butt farre off waters drayned the landes, 
And rann thro' dystant wealdes ! 

" And whenn some vaste expansyve force 
Broke upp the ocean's bedde, 
'Twas thenn this ryver founde itts cowrse ? 
And thro' these valleys spredde ! 

" And soe, when wee shall vanyshed bee, 
Like change shall then come owre ; 
The sea be lande, the fyelde a strande* 
The rivere flowe noe more ! 

" Butt lett us nowe from Nature's workes 
To deedes of mann resorte : 
For knowe, that yonder humble toune 
Was once a royall porte ! 



GEOLOGYE ANDE HISTORYE. 291 

" Here Edwardes, Henryes, sall) T ed forthe, 
Wyth banner and wyth launee ; 
And ofte our monarches sayled from hence 
Toe conqueste and toe Fraurice ! 

" And whenn agaynste th } Armada's force 
Our fathers dared to stryve, 
This porte sent syx-and- twenty e shyppes, 
Ande London twenty-fyve ! 

" Thus, if wee Nature's workes exhume, 
Or owre past hist'rie range, 
Wee fynde both mann and Nature's doome 
Is one perpetuall change ! 

" But seeke we nowe the churche, and vie we 
Its auncyente sacredde pyle ; 
Where Saxonn wyth the Normann arche 
Doth blende its varied style ! 

" And see, in forme of Holye Crosse 
Was builte the blessedde fane, 
To keep in mynde the Savyour's losse, 
And mann's eternall gayne !" 

And now o'er hylle, and mounte, and dale, 

His followers Mantell broughte ; 
And whyle he told the varyed tale, 

This was the lore he taughte : 
o-2 



292 GEOLOGYE ANDE HISTORYE* 

" The distant wealdes ye gaze upon, 

Once swarmedde with monsters rare ; 
There ranged the vast Iguanodon, 
The Hylceosaurus there ! 

" And later yet a sea owrspredde 

The spot where nowe wee waulke ; 
And this was once an ocean's bedde, 
The ocean of the chaulke ! 



" And seas more late, in forme and date, 
Spredde owre the self-same strande ; 
And manye a change, most wylde and strange 9 
Reversed the sea and lande. 

" And later stylle, o'er yonder hylle, 
Didde tropycke creatures roame : 
The wild horse, deere, founde pasture here ? 
The elephaunte a home !" 

And thus, owre valley and owre mounte, 
Didde Mantell holde hys cowrse ; 

And pawsing laste beside a founte, 
He there described its sowrce. 

" This stone of sand, on which I stande," 

He sayde, the stream besyde, 
6 Beares deepe and darke the rypple marke ? 

Worne by a ryver's tyde. 



GEOLOGYE ANDE HISTORYE. 

" And Nature's lawes, from self-same cawse, 
Have marked alike the clowde ; 
And e'en the sunn hath grooves uponn 
Hvs dym and dystante shrowde ! " 

And thence toe porche of Steyning churche, 

A fayre and statelie pyle ; 
And there he tolde itts beautyes olde, 

Of nave, and arche, and aysle. 

And next wee seeke the castled peake, 

And gayne itts frendlie towre. 
The tyme we fyxe to dyne is syxe, 

And, harke ! itt strykes the howre ! 

There vyandes rare are spredde with care ; 

And, thankes to frendes, wee fynde 
Refreshyng cheere provyded here, 

For bodye, and for mynde. 

For, harke ! they alle, at Mantell's calle, 
Have soughte the castelle keepe ; 

To heare once more recounted owre 
The change of lande and deepe i 

Anon, turn'd hee to hystorye, 

From earthes, and chaulkes, and marles ; 
And showed to syghte the lyne of flyghte, 

When fledde our second Charles, 



294 GEOLOGYE ANDE HISTORYE. 

Whenn forced by fate, and Cromwell's hate, 

He flewe from Worcester fyelde, 
Ande soughte the chaunce of flyghte to Fraunce 

Thro' owre own Sussex Wealde ! 

" Looke out againe, in yonder lane 
His fierce pursewers meete ; 
And rudelie ryde the kyng besyde, 
And shake hym in hys seate ! 

" But, thankes to love and Heav'n above, 
Hee 'scapedde from danger's snare ; 
Achieved the flyghte to France by nyghte, 
And landedde safelie there ! " 

And tolde hee of that lovynge wyfe,* 

Who didde herr courage prove, 
And peryll'd libertie and lyfe 

For loyaltie and love ! 

For mann, tho' hee a traitor bee 

To trewth, to dutie's lawes ; 
Yet woman deare is styll sincere 

To love, to honour's cawse ! 

Agayne hee tolde the storie olde, 

Yett ever, ever newe, 
Of changes wyde, in lande and tyde, 

That earthe and oceane knewe ! 

* The wife of Colonel Gunteiv— See the Colonel's narrative in 
' Parry's Coast of Sussex." 



GEOLOGYE ANDE HISTORYE. 295 

* { Butt I will cease, and holde mye peace," 

Enthusyaste Mantell saydde, 
" Whyle cleare and bryghte before youre syghte 

The charmes of Nature spredde. 

" For, harke ! from hylle and vale so stylle 
Ascends her evenyng hymne, 
That nowe dothe rayse her Maker's prayse, 
And breathes alle love toe Hym ! 

" And marke her fyeldes, her woodes, her wealcles, 
Her panorama vaste ; 
And see the whyle the sunne dothe smyle 
Hys bryghtest and hys laste ! " 

For joyes most sweete are alsoe fleete, 

Now twylyghte's shadowes felle ; 
Night threwe owre alle her spangledde palle, 

And Mantell badde — Farewelle ! 

Nowe yee whoe blame this verse, so lame, 

Writt by unlearnedde elfe, 
Thynke not hys lore, as myne, was poore, 

But goe next tyme yourselfe ! 

You'll synge, I ween, " Long lyve owr Q/aeene, 

And Mantell, long lyve hee ; 
And whenn hee waulkes, and w r henn hee taulkes, 

Maye I bee there to see !" 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 



AIone with thee ! how sweet from noise and folly, 

From worldly tumult, grief, and care to flee ; 
And give the mind to musings high and holy, 

Alone with thee ! 

Alone with thee ! how blest, fair love, to wander 

O'er parting lands and wider parting sea ; 
On former thoughts and themes of bliss to ponder, 

Alone with thee ! 

Alone with thee ! how sweet were times of gladness, 

Couldst thou but share their hallowed joys with me ; 
Yet haply still more sweet were hours of sadness, 

Alone with thee ! 

Alone with thee ! in Joy's bright noon of splendour, 

How blest to roam o'er hill and vale and lea ; 
Yet Sorrow's twilight were, me thinks, more tender, 

Alone with thee ! 

Alone with thee ! e'en this world's day of sorrow 

Were bright and blest as Paradise to me ; 
How far more bright Eternity's vast morrow , 

Alone with thee ! 



AN ANECDOTE OF GUSTAVUS 
ADOLPHUS. 



Among those characters who have adorned the 
page of history by their conduct and their exploits, 
modern annals present perhaps no personage more 
truly deserving our admiration and esteem than 
the Swedish hero, Gustavus Adolphus, who united 
in his life and actions the policy of an enlightened 
monarch with the courage and honour of a preux 
chevalier ; whose career has attracted the attention 
of the greatest writers of their age, and who has 
been immortalized by Schiller and celebrated by 
Scott. 

Of those various and touching incidents which 
gave to his brief and brilliant course all the interest 
of a romance, the following simple but touching 
anecdote is recorded by his biographers. 

It w r as his custom, on the eve of any great mili- 
tary expedition, to retire occasionally from the 
bustle of the camp, and wander in the fields, ab- 
sorbed in deep and solitary meditation. While his 
army lay entrenched within the angle which is 
formed by the confluence of the Elbe and the 

o 3 



298 AN ANECDOTE OF 

Havel, near the town of Havelberg, he was one 
day walking on the banks of the latter of these 
rivers, when he was " surprised with the voices of 
ten or twelve young cavaliers, who were talking with 
much vivacity, and seemed to shape their course 
towards the Swedish quarters. The king despatched 
a sentinel or two to summon them to him ; but, as 
these volunteers talked neither German nor Swe- 
dish, they could only answer by signs. Gustavus 
guessing their errand, spoke to them very politely 
in Latin, and offered to incorporate them that very 
day into the very best body of troops then in his 
service." The offer was gladly and instantly ac- 
cepted, and the new comers were enrolled in a dis- 
tinguished corps under the immediate observation 
of the king. For it was a practice with this politic 
sovereign and excellent general to pay particular 
attention to the character and conduct of every 
young officer who joined his standard, and to in- 
quire of their superiors and colonels as to their 
turn of mind and genius for the art of war. 
Nay, we are told that he not unfrequently con- 
versed with the meanest of his soldiers, and knew 
numbers of them by name. In the course of the 
observation which he was thus induced to form of 
'the young aspirants to his favour, he was much 
struck with the martial figure and intelligent fea- 
tures of a young Frenchman of the party. He 



GUSTAVUS AD0LPHUS. 299 

therefore entered into conversation with the youth, 
and, delighted with the spirit and talent of his 
conversation, invited him to his table and his tent, 
and one morning requested the favour of his com- 
pany to inspect some beautiful horses which had 
been captured at the outposts from the enemy. 
The Frenchman appeared perfectly conversant 
with the qualities of the animals, and having ex- 
pressed his admiration of two in preference to the 
rest, the king requested his acceptance in terms as 
polite as they were generous. " You will please 
observe, Sir," was his observation, "that they are 
not a present ; I do not give them to you, I only 
pay you for the merit which I see you have, and 
which you have dedicated to my service," The 
youth still attempting to express his acknowledg- 
ments and excuses, and declining the gift, the king 
stopped him with the remark—" Nay, Sir, you will 
find them necessary for your use, as brigadier in my 
regiment of guards, to which post I have just now 
appointed you. They may be further useful in 
some expeditions of importance in which I may 
shortly have the pleasure of employing you." 

An opportunity of the sort very speedily oc- 
curred. Intelligence reached the Swedish camp 
that a convoy of rich booty, plundered by the Im- 
perialists, would ere long pass within a short dis- 
tance, under the command of an officer of high 



800 AN ANECDOTE OF 

rank and family, and of distinguished military re- 
putation. To attack the escort, to overthrow it, 
and, if possible, gain possession of its treasures, 
were objects of great importance to the Swedish 
king ; the enterprise was instantly resolved on, and 
its execution entrusted to an officer of considerable 
valour and experience, who was directed to select 
a proper number of volunteers for the dangerous 
but honourable service. Among the first who pre- 
sented themselves need we say was the gallant 
Frenchman, who burned with the desire to sig- 
nalize himself, and win the steed which had been 
so generously bestowed. The due preparations 
made, the expedition was fixed to set out at fall of 
night, and the commandant was directed to repair, 
at that hour, to the tent of Gustavus, to receive his 
latest commands and directions. These were care- 
fully and cautiously detailed by the brave but pru- 
dent monarch, who united caution for the personal 
safety of others, and neglect of his own, in a degree 
eminently characteristic of his generous and noble 
nature. When all was explained — " And now, Von 
Ernstein," said the king, " comes an injunction 
scarcely less important than those I have men- 
tioned before. Among your little band you have 
a French youth, a mere stripling, who has ventured 
on this dangerous service. You will know him — he 
rides a black steed which Bjornstjern took the 



GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. 801 

other day from the Bavarians ; be careful of this 
youth, have your eye on him, and keep a trooper 
or two behind him in the charge — their aid may be 
necessary ; for he is brave and eager, or I mistake 
my man, and I grow weak and womanish in my 
likings, old comrade ; and believe me, I could as 
well afford to lose a battle of ten thousand a side as 
to lose that young, and beautiful, and gallant boy ;" 
and with a hearty pressure of the hand the monarch 
dismissed his officer. 

The brave band set out at night-fall, and pro- 
ceeded to the place appointed for their rendezvous. 
At the distance of a German mile from the 
scene of action they met a peasant, who, true 
to time and place, was instantly recognised and 
mounted behind the fleetest dragoon of the corps. 
By his direction the party quitted the main road, 
and. sought through by-paths the appointed ren- 
dezvous, a hill above the high road, admirably 
adapted for an ambuscade, since its brow was co- 
vered with lofty trees which sheltered the hidden 
troops, while a pathway led on each side to the 
road itself. Half a dozen of the men dismounted, 
and securing their horses, advanced to the brow. 
They had scarcely taken up their ground when the 
noise of approaching cavalry was heard, and the 
advanced guard of the Imperialists w T as descried on 
the causeway. 



302 AN ANECDOTE OF 

A halt was suddenly called, and a conference 
took place between the officers, so near that it 
could be distinctly heard by the party hidden in 
the thicket. 

" Auenbach," said the commanding officer to 
his lieutenant, " this spot looks suspicious, and 
ought perhaps to be searched. It would hide a 
regiment of Pappenheim's cuirassiers. Methought 
amid these pines this moment I heard a movement, 
and fancied I distinguished the neighing of a horse. 
See'st thou — hear'st thou aught?" 

" 'Twas the tired nag of a peasant, perchance,' 5 
said the party interrogated, " glad to hasten to its 
stable. I hear nothing, not I ; yet stay — hark, it 
is — the advance of our own dragoons ; 'tis we have 
lingered, and ought to be a full half mile in ad- 
vance. Come, hasten on, and gallop be our word, 
or they will overtake us while we stand trifling 
here." 

The command was given, the advanced party 
hastened on, and were soon succeeded by the main 
body. The party en faction had returned to their 
comrades ; all was ready, and on their approach to 
the hill the escort were attacked with an impetu- 
osity and daring which left no doubt of success. The 
Imperialists, surprised, overwhelmed, overthrown 
in a moment, fled to a man, their commander 
alone opposing a brief and fruitless resistance. 



GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. 808 

He was instantly singled out by the French youth, 
the object of Gustavus' friendship, who, after a 
mutual and harmless discharge of pistols, closed 
with him sword in hand. The advantage of 
strength and experience was with the German 
officer, but these were counterbalanced by the 
courage and daring of his youthful opponent, w T ho 
moreover had the superiority of being much better 
mounted than his foe, and after a short but spirited 
combat, unhorsed his opponent, and compelled him 
reluctantly to surrender. The booty seized by the 
Swedish party was rich and rare, sufficient, in 
short, to repay all the risks and dangers of the 
enterprise ; and having secured the prisoners and 
the effects, the victors sought their monarch's 
camp. 

Soon as their approach next morning was 
notified to Gustavus, he left his tent to welcome 
his conquering soldiers, and inspect their booty. 
Among his first inquiries was the question if the 
young Frenchman was alive and unhurt ; and what 
was his delight when the youth presented himself, 
followed by the commander of the enemy's forces, a 
prisoner to his stripling opponent, whom, according 
to usage, he delivered up to his sovereign as part of 
the booty. " Brave boy," exclaimed the monarch, 
"how well hast thou justified my expectations f 
Think not, however, that Gustavus will rob thee 



304 GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. 

of thy spoils, and partake an advantage thy own 
bravery hath earned. Thy prisoner is rich and 
noble ; and rich and noble will be the ransom he 
should pay thee, For myself, I renounce it, and 
give all to thee. Farewell for the moment', we 
shall be engaged till dinner, and then shall hope 
for thy presence, young soldier." 

And the place of honour was reserved for the 
youthful and victorious aspirant ; and after the 
friendly meal, and when the wine-cup had gone its 
round, Gustavus inquired aloud of the youth what 
ransom he had agreed on with his captive. 

" I hope to be forgiven," said the youth, " but 
the ransom is settled, and, in some measure, 
already paid. My prisoner, may it please your 
majesty, is a brave soldier, and a gallant and a 
worthy man ; and poor as I am, I could not ask 
him money for his liberty ; we have therefore 
bargained, if you, Sire, will allow it, that he is to 
have his freedom for nothing, only that he is to 
remain awhile with me, to teach me the Swedish 
and German languages, that I may thereby be 
enabled the better to receive and execute your 
majesty's commands!" 

The heart of Gustavus overflowed with sympa- 
thy and admiration and delight. A hearty pres- 
sure of the hand, herzlicher hdndedruck is the 
German phrase, told all that was left unsaid by his 



GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. 305 

tear -fraught eyes and failing voice ; and it was not 
until the youth had respectfully bowed and de- 
parted that the king could adequately express his 
feelings. " That boy," at length he exclaimed to 
his friends, " will be a great man !" 

And could so great a man be mistaken in his 
estimate of greatness ? That boy, who long sur- 
vived his adored general and master, was Jean 
Gassion, one of the bravest soldiers France ever 
saw. After attaining eminent distinction in Ger- 
many, he acquired equal eminence in his native 
country, was loaded with honours and preferments, 
and was the only Protestant prior to the revolution 
who obtained the rank of a Marshal of France ! 



REMEMBRANCE. 



Remember thee, sweet one ! remember, O yes, 
I will ever remember, adore thee and bless ; 
From the carols of morning, to eve's vesper chime, 
In each saddest, and sweetest, and holiest time ! 

Remember thee, dearest ! O think'st thou that I 
Could ever erase thee from mind and from eye ? 
Those lips and those looks, and those ringlets so jet — 
O who could behold them and ever forget ? 

Remember thee ! yes, I'll remember thee still, 

In bliss and in sorrow, in joy and in ill ; 

Though absence may sever, though distance may part, 

I'll remember how lovely, how loving thou art ! 

Remember thee ! yes, but while others may prize 
Thine outward perfections, those looks, and those eyes ; 
'Twill be mine with a dearer, a deeper control, 
To dwell on thy gifts, and thy graces of soul ! 

Remember thee ! yes, I'll remember, sweet saint, 
Each treasure that love and affection would paint ; 
Each gift, and each charm, and each talent refin'd, 
Thy graces all feeling, thy beauties all mind ! 

Remember thee ! yes, in each moment of care, 
Of solitude, sorrow, devotion, and prayer ; 
And each boon that I ask at Eternity's shrine, 
Shall be mingled with blessings on thee and on thine ! 



STANZAS 

ON THE QUEEN'S ARRIVAL AT BRIGHTON. 



Hail, daughter of a royal line ! 

Whom England joys to call her own ; 
While England's hopes and prayers entwine 

Around thy young and virgin throne. 
We now invite thee to thy home, 

Young mistress of this fair demesne ; 
And welcome to yon palace dome 

Our young, and loved, and maiden Queen! 

Hail, ruler o'er a mighty land ! 

And may that Power Supreme who gave 
The sceptre to thy fair young hand, 

And bade thee reign o'er land and wave — 
O may that power each grace impart 

That's richest prized or rarest seen, 
And bless with gifts of mind and heart 

Our young, and loved, and maiden Queen ! 

Hail, object of a mother's prayer! 

"Who, while she views this scene of bliss. 
Feels many a year of hope and care 

Repaid by moments blest as this, 



308 STANZAS. 

And while in transports meek and mild, 
She views the bright and fairy scene, 

Still blesses Heaven, that sent her child, 
Our young, and loved, and maiden Queen ! 

Hail, hail, all hail ! — these outward joys, 

The cheering shout, the deafening din, — 
The cannons' roar, the crowd, the noise, 

But poorly speak the bliss within : 
And would we strive our joys to tell, 

Our noblest words were all too mean ; 
And silence best can show how well 

We love our young and maiden Queen ! 



THE SEPARATION. 



The young Earl of C had received a diplo- 
matic mission to one of the German courts, and 
having completed the requisite preparations for his 
journey, came to bid adieu to his young and beau- 
tiful Countess. 

" All is finished, Julia, love," he exclaimed as 
he entered her boudoir, " the carriage is at the 
door, the trunks are packed and loaded, and I have 
now only to bid adieu to thee ! " 

" Farewell, Henry," said his beautiful consort, 
as she hastily wiped the starting tear from her 
eyes; "farewell, since it must be so. But we 
shall not be parted long, dearest, at least I hope 
not; I shall be inconsolable till I see you again. 
Pray, Harry, shorten your stay as much as possi- 
ble ; but you will, for my sake, you will," and she 
grasped his proffered hand yet firmer, and a fresh 
flow of tears obscured her eyes as they looked 
anxiously into his. 



310 THE SEPARATION. 

" Of course I will, love," said the ardent and 
devoted husband ; "but time wastes, and I must 
tear myself away. You will not be long a widow, 
Julia, rely on it ; and the first moment I can get 
away shall bring me to your arms again." 

" Thank you, dearest," exclaimed the Countess, 
" and there is another person too you know, who, 
unconscious as he is, should win you again to your 
home ;" and with gentle, noiseless steps she led 
her husband to the elegant cot, in which reposed 
in all the sweet loveliness of childish beauty, the 
infant heir of his house. 

The happy parents gazed with mutual delight 
on the slumbers of their darling, and turned away 
to renew their adieus and protestations of attach- 
ment. These were now closed, the last mutual 
kiss had been impressed, the last fond farewell 

breathed, and Lord C had reached the door, 

when the voice of his lady recalled him for a 
moment. 

"And Henry, dear — " 

"My love," — was his reply, as he waited the 
communication. 

" Come hither, Henry," said the Countess, and 
hesitatingly added, " Of course, Harry — that is — 
you know — you'll promise me — to be a good boy, 
dearest ; forgive my foolish feelings, but the con- 
tinent is gay, you know ; and when I am away — 



THE SEPARATION. 311 

and— and — " unable to finish her injunction, she 
hid her blushing face in his bosom, ashamed of her 
own fears. 

" Sois tranquille, mon amour" said the fond mari, 
" I have a monitor here, you see, which, believe 
me, shall never quit my heart ;" and he produced a 
miniature of herself, which he ever wore on his 
bosom. To you, Julia, I give no admonition. I 
leave a little representative of myself, w T ho will 
effectually recall my recollection, should it for a 
moment escape your bosom. Be kind, be ever 
attentive to him, darling, is all I ask, all I wish. 
You will stay with my mother, and to her I entreat 
a similar affection. And now once more, farewell, 
farewell ! " 

And with another last kiss, another last adieu, 
he tore himself from his now w r eeping consort, and 
left the house. 

The Countess of C- w T as, as we have said, a 

young and beautiful woman, and it is painful to add, 
her character partook somewhat of that fickleness 
and irresolution which are usually in a greater or 
less degree the concomitants of youth and inexperi- 
ence. Her disposition w^as kind, amiable, affection- 
ate, but it was yielding, conforming, weak; the 
creature of impulse, she yielded to every circum- 
stance, however trivial, which could influence her 
conduct, every passing breath of opinion, of per- 



312 THE SEPARATION. 

suasion, of inducement. In her mature years, in 
short, she retained and displayed the weaknesses 
almost of infancy ; and like a child which, while 
under the eye of its master, would conduct itself 
with propriety and correctness, the moment that 
superintendence was withdrawn, she was prone, at 
the instance of others, to deviate from that path of 
strict duty and propriety which her own feelings 
and her better judgment would have preferred, and 
to fall into errors and follies which were foreign to 
her nature. 

For some time after the departure of her lord, 
nothing could have been more consistent, more 
strictly becoming than her whole deportment. 
Secluded at home, she declined even the visits of 
her nearest and dearest friends ; devoted to the care 
of her little and precious charge, whose sole 
nurse she was, she fulfilled the sacred duties of a 
mother with the most perfect and self-denying 
attention. During this period, it is necessary to 
state, the metropolis was comparatively empty. 
She had but few friends to interrupt her good 
resolves, and her correspondingly good conduct ; 
but it is painful to add, that her attentions gradu- 
ally relaxed as temptations presented themselves, 
and she was assailed with all the attractions of a 
London season. 

O that London season ! with how many dark and 



THE SEPARATION. 313 

mournful, as well as bright and glad associations, is 
it not connected ! Beautiful and brilliant as it 
appears at a distance, a nearer approach, a closer 
investigation, often exhibit results of the most 
painful character, and like the volcano, its fires 
delight the eye with their splendour, but too often 
leave in many a bosom the sorrows and the ashes 
of penitence and regret. And our fair Countess 
was one of the most charming, the most to be 
pitied of its victims. 

For a considerable time she resisted the impor- 
tunities of friends to appear in public, and the 
repeated presents of tickets for Almack's, the soli- 
citations of musical professors to patronize their 
concerts, and the more pressing invitations to 
private parties, w r ere alike disregarded. Her box 
at the opera was untenanted; her carriage was 
wanting in the drive ; and the absence of the 
beautiful Countess w T as mourned as that of the 
brightest star in the galaxy of fashion. Her almost 
sole delight w T as her attention to her darling child ; 
her chief employ corresponding with her absent 
lord, or conversing with his aged mother, who 
began to fear that the almost total seclusion would 
prove injurious to her health and spirits. By 
degrees, therefore, the affectionate and aged Coun- 
tess-dowager persuaded her daughter-in-law to relax 
somewhat of her strictness, and to receive and 



314 THE SEPARATION. 

return the visits of a few of her friends ; but un- 
happily the change in her habits thus effected, was 
but too soon followed by consequences of the most 
painful kind. " The beginning of evil," says the 
wise man, " is as when one letteth out water ;" its 
progress, small at first, goes on increasing, till the 
swelling stream bursts all barriers, and overwhelms 
all around in one flood of misery ! 

The Countess at first paid merely a few visits, and 
went to a few only of the parties of her friends, 
and from these she early and eagerly returned to 
the delightful task of nursing her infant treasure, 
and discoursing with her aged and revered parent. 
These visits by degrees increased in number and 
extent ; her invitations became more numerous, her 
absence from home more frequent and more pro- 
tracted, and she was at length drawn into all the 
gaieties of that London season, whose perilous 
attractions we have already had occasion to regret. 
,Her former delightful duties were now but slightly 
attended to, or put off altogether; she wrote but 
seldom to her Lord ; how could she ? — she had not 
time ; and attended but imperfectly to the duties 
of her child, for the task was alike incompatible 
with her various and increasing engagements. 

Her affectionate parent witnessed, with severe 
regret and self-reproach, the altered conduct of her 
deluded daughter. Fain would she have recalled 



THE SEPARATION. 315 

the fatal solicitation with which, from motives of 
kindness, she had urged her to join in the gaieties 
of the world ; fain have caused her to retrace 
her steps ; alas ! it was too late, and she could 
only indulge in that bitterest of all regrets — 
the fruitless lamentation for the past. She deter- 
mined, however, to remonstrate with her mistaken 
charge, and in terms, mild, yet forcible, she pointed 
out the folly, nay the guilt, of conduct'so inconside- 
rate ; its ill effects on her own health, and that of 
her infant ; her ingratitude to her husband ; and 
finally, her want of delicacy and right feeling 
towards herself, since, though invested with no 
authority from her son, the Dow T ager-countess felt 
that she was responsible in some degree to him for 
the health and welfare of his wife and child, both 
of which were endangered by her present course. 
The Earl, too, had signified his intention of shortly 
returning home, and what would be his displeasure 

at such a course as Lady C -was pursuing. But 

remonstrance was unavailing, the Rubicon was 
passed, and the Countess was only induced to 
persevere in this course from the opposition which 
was raised against it. 

"At least," added her mother, "dear Lady 

C , let me entreat you to remain at home this 

evening ; it is long since you have done so, and it 
is my duty to acquaint you that I feel considerable 



316 THE SEPARATION. 

uneasiness on account of the child. Neglect, I 
fear, is about to produce ill effects on his frame ; 
he has been restless the whole night, and this 
morning has all the symptoms of fever: indeed, 
indeed he is ill ; and will you, can you go ?" 

The beautiful and still feeling, but weak and 
irresolute Countess, paused for a moment, struck 
with the justice of the remonstrance, and was half 
inclined to accede to her wish, when a rap of thun- 
der was heard at the door, and she saw through 
the window the carriage of Lady — ~, with whom 
she had made an appointment to report on the sale 
of tickets for the concert of an Italian artiste, 
which was to take place that evening. 

"•Dear mamma," she said, "excuse me; for 
this moment I must see Lady — — - — by appoint- 
ment, and afterwards we will speak on the subject." 

The aged lady mournfully withdrew, and the 
visiter came, was received, and found means effec- 
tually to engage the fickle Lady C to join 

her party in the evening. 

The time consumed in this conference, and the 
requisite preparations for the toilette, occupied 
nearly the space till night ; and it was only when 
full dressed, that the Countess again encountered 
her anxious mother, who vainly sought to dissuade 
her from her injudicious promise. 

" Come and see the child," at last she added, 



THE SEPARATION. 317 

finding her entreaties unavailing ; and she led her 
unwillingly to the cot in which the infant lay. He 
had sunk into a momentary slumber ; but the 
short quick breath, the clenched hands, the flushed 
cheek, the restless expression of the features, 
plainly spoke of suffering and pain. " And will 
you, Julia, will you really go ?" asked her aged 
relative, with intense anxiety. 

" Dear mamma," said the thoughtless lady, " I 
cannot avoid it ; I am positively pledged to Lady 
— — — . Besides, you see he is asleep, and, I have 
no doubt, will awake revived and refreshed, and 
better. You'll attend to him, Morris," she said 
to her lady's maid, " till I come back ; and if any 
thing should occur, be sure you send imme- 
diately for Carpue." And she hastened to her 
carriage and her soiree. 

Scarcely had she left the house, when the infant 
awoke in all the anguish of suffering. Its cries 
were fearful ; its agonies but too evident ; and all 
attempts to soothe or quiet it were vain. The 

aged Lady C was immediately informed of 

its danger, and instantly despatched a note to a 
fashionable surgeon residing in the same street, re- 
questing his immediate attention ; while a message 
was also forwarded to the concert at which Lady 

C- was attending, but which was unhappily at 

a considerable distance from the mansion. 
p3 



318 THE SEPARATION. 

The surgeon arrived, and had just been ushered 
into the room in which the sufferer lay, when 
a travelling carriage was heard rushing up the 
street, a loud and repeated knocking shook the 

house, and in a few seconds the Earl of C • 

rushed into the room where lay his now dying 
child. The medical attendant and his mother were 
vainly striving to soothe the infant, which was 
now attacked with strong convulsions, the evident 
harbingers of death. 

"What!" he wildly cried ;— " C here!— 

my boy ill! O mother! where, where is Lady 
Q . ? Has any thing befallen her ?" 

" She is from home at this moment," falteringiy 
replied his mother. 

"From home! but why, at a time like this? 
O there is sad negligence somewhere ! Tell me, 
mother, where is my wife ? this instant, I conjure 
you, tell me?" 

His parent would fain have evaded the reply ; 
but her son perceived her hesitation, and urged an 
answer. " Can you, will you, deceive me, mother ? 
Where, I again ask, is Lady C ?" 

The aged lady tremblingly replied, " At 's 

concert." 

" At a concert !" shrieked the Earl, "while her 
child is dying. But she could not know of ids 
state. Say she knew it not, and ease my breaking 
heart," 



THE SEPARATION. 319 

But his mother could only cast clown her eyes 
in answer, and weep tears of unavailing regret. 

"But why," he reiterated, "did she leave home? 
and why, mother, did you suffer it ? Why " — 
but at this moment a carriage drew up at the 
door ; a rap was heard ; in a few seconds the 
unhappy object of censure entered the room : 
and what was the scene which presented itself! 
Her aged relative the picture of sorrow and de- 
spair; her angry and justly incensed lord darting 
on her a look of horror, such as she had never 
before met, never before deserved; her child 
moaning in all the agonies of death ; for even at 
that moment, a fresh convulsion seized him ; the 
little hands were clenched ; the tiny mouth was 
drawn with agony ; the eyes glared wildly for an 
instant, and the infant heir of an earldom was no 
more! 

The fashionable journals of the next week de- 
plored the separation of a noble earl, distinguished 
in the diplomatic circles, and his young and lovely 
consort. Various causes, all indeed but the right, 
were assigned as the motives of the separation, the 
real occasion of which is now, for the first time, 
revealed to the public. 



STANZAS. 



O thou hast beam'd upon my path in beauty and in bliss, 
A vision of a brighter sphere, too pure, too blest for this ; 
A being from a better world, in mercy sent to beam 
Its blessings on the mourner's grief, the captive's lonely 
dream. 

My youthful visions oft had feign'd a creature all of grace, 
Divinest gifts adorn'd her mind, and loveliest charms 

her face ; 
And when I met some new-found charm, I flew to 

fancy's shrine, 
And graced my idol with the gift, and joy'd to call it mine. 

Yet such a mind and such a face I scarcely hop'd to see, 
So fair a being on this earth methought could never be ; 
Yet still I deck'd her form and face with graces ever new, 
And my visions only seem'd more bright since they could 
ne'er be true. 

And O with such a being blest, I said what joys were mine, 
To seek together fancy's bowers, or kneel at learning's 

shrine ; 
To cultivate the mutual mind and purify the heart, 
Or rise from mental joys and seek devotion's better part ! 



STANZAS. 321 

One joy, one grief, would then be ours, one fond con- 
fiding heart, 

No bliss save what each other felt, no happiness apart ; 

Our joys a brighter dream by far than e'er below was 
given ; 

Our life one sabbath all of bliss, and this poor earth 
a heaven ! 

And thou, fair love, hast far outshone the hope of love 

and youth, 
Hast blest my dreams with waking bliss, and made my 

visions truth ; 
Thy face and form are brighter far than fancy's shapes 

of air, 
And O ! what fancy e'er could feign a mind so blest and 

fair ! 

But thou art like some vision blest, that dawns on sor- 
row's sleep, 

That beams awhile in love and light, then leaves the 
wretch to weep ; 

And like some fair angelic form, a moment seen and 
flown, 

Thine image will but shine more bright when thou art 
ever gone. 

And I am left to mourn the bliss, that was but seen to flee t 
And vainly seek, in others, charms that only live in thee ; 
To dream awhile of happiness, in misery to wake ; — 
But hush, my sighs, be still my tears, and heart, O do 
not break ! 



THE CORONATION. 



I saw the pageant ; when a people free, 

And brave, and blest, — -O who so blest as they ! 

Lords of the land and rulers of the sea — 

Crown'd the young monarch whom their isles obey. 

Earth's proudest triumphs hail'd the halcyon day, 

And smil'd the skies in fair unwonted sheen, 

The bright sun shone with clear and cloudless ray, 

And gentlest shower soft fell, at times, between, 

As Heaven itself would weep, for joy, at such a scene. 

I saw the heroes of a hundred fights ; — 
And lovely women look'd on gallant men ; 
And steel-clad warriors and stern harness'd knights 
Smiled on bright eyes, that sweetly smil'd again ! 
And dreams of rapture fir'd the soul ; for then 
I felt how glorious were these sea-girt isles, 
Which never Tyranny hath made its den, 
Nor Bigotry ensnared with craftiest wiles, 
But Freedom makes her home, and Peace adorns with 
smiles ! 



THE CORONATION. 323 

I saw a warrior from a rival realm, 
And mark'd the triumph that adorn'd his way ; 
For noblest laurels deck'd the veteran's helm, 
Won in the strife of many a hard-fought fray ! 
And as his course through crowded thousands lay, 
I heard the shouts that hail'd him ; for the free 
Are gen'rous as they're valiant, and repay 
A foeman's worth, and joy such claims to see 
As England proudly views and owns, brave Soult, in 
thee! 

I saw a royal mother ; and her smile, 
And the glad transport of her joy-lit face, 
Could scarce express the bliss she felt the while 
She shared the rapture of that hour and place ! 
For O ! if bliss of heaven can find a space 
In mortal breast, 'tis when a mother shares 
The transports of her child, and views the grace 
With which her darling her young triumph wears, 
And feels that hour repay long years of fears and 
cares. 

I saw the Queen, fair England's fairest rose ; 
And O ! at sight of her, what prayers were sped ; 
What blessings loud and deep to heaven arose, 
Invoking happiness on that young head ; 
Like morning dews on some sweet rosebud spread ! 
And when at eve she sought her palace bower, 
Alike were gentlest prayers and blessings said ; 
Falling around in many a softest shower, 
Like dews of evening shed on some sweet closing 
flower. 



324 THE CORONATION. 

And be this day auspicious ;— long may she 

Taste of such rapture as this hour beguiles ; 

Long reign the monarch of the brave and free ; 

The guardian angel of her subject isles ; 

And ne'er may Fortune's shafts nor Falsehood's wiles 

Mar the sweet transport of her soul's content ; 

But may she ever wreathe her brow with smiles ; 

And when her happy course on earth is spent, 

May " goodness" and herself " fill up one monument/' 



THE END. 



R, CLAY, PRINTER, BRE AD-3 1 RE ET-HI i-L 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 





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